Wild Horses
by pulchritudo in omnia
Summary: She felt cheap and disgusted, and she questioned how she found herself in this situation. There were so many other ladies he might have picked, and yet he called her name that fateful evening. "I choose Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to be my wife. Do you take me to be your husband?" She closed her eyes, "Yes, I will marry you, Éomer King." (AU)
1. CHAPTER ONE

**a/n:** I don't know what I'm doing, and I'm really terrified. My writing is a bit rusty, and I hope it'll get better as I progress.

Anyway, this is a new story I've been working on over the past couple of months. I have a rough outline of what I want to do, and a few chapters written thus far...but it's still a work in progress. I am guessing you could classify this as AU as well, as Gondor doesn't really have a court as the one I have written here. But I figured for this part of the story, wherein Éomer is in search of a wife, it would have been needed. Anyway, Tolkien purists please don't murder me. I'm trying really hard. Hah.

 **CHAPTER ONE:**

Lothíriel found it odd she now stood within the King's chambers. Her shared chambers on the nights she were to spend with him. She stood in no more than her shift, long gone now the servants she had shooed out of the room, wishing to remain alone in her last few moments of being a maiden. Candles flickered all around the room, though they did nothing for the icy chill which wrapped around her aching heart.

This day changed everything, in more ways than she could count on one hand. Just hours prior she stood beside her now husband before his people, declaring emotionless words of love and fealty. She swore herself to a man she knew no more than a few months, allowed their wrists to be bound together, the feeling of her pulse radiating against his. He whispered the same words in his language, words she could not understand, yet did not care to question what they meant. To her, the meaning meant little. She had been bought and bartered for, like a prized horse to be gawked at - a young girl with a crown on her head; a young girl with a crown too heavy to bare.

With his free hand he had touched the nape of her neck and drew her forward for a kiss. The final tie in the alliance between Gondor and Rohan. The final straw aligned with the rest, each one more final than the one which came before. No longer was she the Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth...a thought which never brought her joy in the least even before her coronation, but now she begged to return to. Simpler were the times she remained in her gilded cage along the shores of Balfalas. Days where she could hike up her skirts against her Father's protests and dash through the waves. Days where the sound of her brother's laughter filled the halls of her home and the crevices of her heart. Days where the only pain she knew were the prick of a needle as she sewed away in her bedchamber little gifts for her nieces and nephews.

She breathed a sigh at the memory of his bearded face against hers, so coarse and calculated. His lips were softer than she had imagined or expected, and yet he pressed them against her's with a firmness which made her heart ache. She knew Éomer to be a man of honor, and expected him to treat her with the kindness her Father promised her he would, yet it did little for the pounding of her nervous heartbeat deep within the cage which confined it.

Trembling, she stepped in front of the mirror in his bedchamber, inspecting her form in the orange glow of the fire which burned in the distance. The shadow of her silhouette caught her eye, each curve outlined through her shift. No longer did she hold the curves of a young girl. The woman standing before her matured, developed...held beauty foreign to her knowledge. Fear clawed at her stomach the longer she stared at her form, recognition of the fact she would be expected to carry a child within her womb - recognition of _how_ the child would take root in her.

 _What if he does not like me?_ _What if he is repulsed by me and I cannot fulfill my job to provide an heir? What will they do if I cannot give him a son?_

The girl brushed her hand across her face, frustrated tears hitting the floor below. Her new husband's armor sat on a chair nearer to the fire, a beautiful red cloak nestled beside it. Her fingers brushed over the neck of the garment, so perfectly tailored to the broad width of her husband's form. She had seen him wear it earlier that evening, looking like the proud King he was. She lifted it in front of her, admiring the way the fabric shone in the light, and pulled it over her shoulders. Fur tickled at the back of her neck and ears, though she found it to block out the sheer cold of the winter, and leaned her head against the collar.

Curious, she brushed her nose against the fur and inhaled, taking in the scent of her horse lord. It smelled of burning wood and the outdoors, of grass, dirt, and a hint of something _else._ Something more delicate, perhaps? Lothíriel swayed in the middle of the room, the cloak still round about her shoulders, to the sound of the music still playing down in the hall. The festivities would be expected to continue until the certainty of consummation presented itself. She laughed at the thought: while the guests of the King partied until the sun shed its morning light, she would be expected to perform a duty which filled her heart and soul with dread.

There was no peace to be found, even with knowing her life had prepared her for such a time as this. Princesses were wed to noble men, of this she had been reminded often throughout her life. Thankfully, her husband was still young and kind. He loved Father and her brothers considered him brother long before they were wed. Other situations might have been different; she could have been married to someone old enough to be her father, or to someone who would treat her poorly, to someone who smelled of dung...the outcomes were endless. Even her maidservants reminded her of how handsome her husband was, and how many women would love to share a bed with the King. Despite all this, she found little comfort in their useless words.

Lothíriel spun about on the tips of her toes, humming a tune her and her husband had danced to at the beginning of their celebrations, the hem of her shift dancing about her calves. It was then the chamber doors opened. Startled, she paused in her movements and eyed the form in the mirror. Éomer stood there in his own nightclothes, a long linen which covered him enough but left very little to the imagination. He still held aloft the wine he had been drinking throughout the party, paired with another goblet she knew he'd brought for her. Realizing she still wore his cloak, she tugged it off her shoulders and draped it back over the chair and bowed before her husband, flinching when she heard him slide the door bolt into place. An unfamiliar intensity filled his eyes as he approached her, her goblet extended before her face.

She took it with an appreciative nod and forced a grim smile upon her lips. "You said you would be some time yet...I did not expect you so soon." Her heart raced in her chest, the sound drowning out the world around her. His lips quirked upward briefly, before he settled himself down on the bed. "I am sorry about your cloak, it was just so very beautiful I wanted to try it on."

"I do not mind, Lothíriel. We are wed now."

The way he said it twisted her gut. Swallowing thickly, she sat down beside him and took a sip of her wine. "I am not sure what I am expected to do. Do you wish for me to lay down while you...get on with it?"

"You make it seem as though it were the worst thing," he said, forcing a laugh, though it never reached his eyes. "I am hopeful we can both find happiness in this marriage."

"Please, can we just..."

"We do not have to go through with this tonight. I don't expect this from you -"

"Please." Though she wanted anything but _this_ , if she delayed she might never accept her marriage duty.

She placed the goblet down on the top of the trunk before the bed, then scooted backward and laid herself against the furs. He cleared his throat and placed his drink beside hers, before laying beside her. At the first brush of his fingers through her hair, she felt her teeth bite down against her bottom lip. He withdrew for a moment at her reaction, then returned, his fingers moving to undo the pins which held her hair in place. Once freed and rolling in tumbles across his palms and her shoulders, he twisted a strand around his finger, watching her. Frightened, she lifted his palm and pressed it against her chest, knowing she needed to get this over with and _quick._

"You do not have to fear me, Lothíriel," he whispered, before his lips descended onto the skin of her cheek. His palm curled tighter over her breast, the erratic thump of her heart against the curve of his own flesh.

She thanked Elbereth he did not kiss her mouth again, and instead turned her head so he could continue to kiss down the planes of her cheek and downward against her neck. The desire some of the looser ladies in court spoke of did not come, instead with each press of his lips against her skin she felt herself sink further and further into the bed, her wish to be elsewhere so great she might drown in it. And as his lips ventured further, his hand tugging her shift downward to reveal more of her chest, she choked out a whimper. If he took it as pleasure and not fear, she was uncertain.

She knew his ministrations were merely to get _himself_ ready, though it did nothing to settle her own nerves.

"I am sorry..."

His words were more a plea than an apology, and she forced her eyes shut as his hands moved to pull the shift up around her hips. He whispered sorry again when his fingers trailed along the inside of her thigh, and again when they ventured to her innermost point. She nodded with every plea, his words a mantra in her ears.

 _Sorry_ as he kissed over her breasts, her knowing fully well that this needed to be done. This was her duty, she needed to submit to him.

 _Sorry_ as he tugged the remainder of his clothing from his body...as he settled himself down atop her.

 _Sorry_ as she felt the first hint of him against her.

 _Sorry_ as he moved his hips in one fluid motion and took her maidenhead.

 _Sorry._

 _Sorry._

Sorry.

She cried silent tears, her face turned away from his as he moved against her, the fullness of him bringing her more pain than she thought she could bare. No one warned her of the absolute pain of it all, of the way it felt like she was filled to the brim and might run over from it. The burn settled into a deep ache, and despite the vows they declared before a congregation just hours before, something felt _wrong._ This act went against all her father protected her from her whole life, and now her life as Queen required it.

A low grunt sounded from her husband's throat then, his hand moving to curl around the back of her hips, bringing her even closer against him. A strangled cry slipped through parted lips, frantic hands moving to cradle her face gently. Éomer searched her eyes for a moment, his torturous movements of his hips stilling. Slowly, she raised her palm and pressed it over his chest, over his heart. His fingers moved to cover hers, a kiss pressed against her temple.

"You must know I didn't wish to hurt you..."

No words were shared, instead she did the unimaginable and brought his mouth down to hers, silencing any further conversation. She really wanted no more than to scream at him to get off of her, to remove himself from her presence and never show himself again.

 _You belong to none, Lothíriel,_ she whispered in her mind, holding onto his shoulders as he rode out the waves of his pleasure and dropped down against her chest, his breathing ragged pants upon her collar bone. They parted soon after, her form curled on the far end of the bed, her husband on the other. No touching, no hands reached out into darkness to draw one another closer. Two people, so distanced not only physically but emotionally. And as she heard her husband begin to drift off into sleep, she tugged her shift down her legs and winced at the feeling of blood and something else gliding down the inside of her thigh. She felt cheap and disgusted, and she questioned how she found herself in this situation.

There were so many other ladies he might have picked, and yet he called her name that fateful evening.

 _I choose Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to be my wife. Do you take me to be your husband?_

Even though it were an offer, not a demand, the shackle had already been locked around her ankle. How could she deny the man when her father looked at her like he were the most happy of all men in Gondor? How could she deny her brothers, the way their eyes widened in excitement at the prospect of calling Éomer 'brother' in blood, instead of friendship? She knew Gondor needed a solid alliance with Rohan, and the good it would bring to both parties. She closed her eyes again and pictured the events which seemed so long ago now, of all the balls and sweet words. Of the last moments of freedom, before they slipped from her fingers and scattered in the wind.

 _Yes, I will marry you, Éomer King._

-xx-

 _Earlier that year..._

The stays on her gown were dangerously tight, of that she realized a bit _too_ late. Each breath felt forced. Choked. She glanced out the corner of her eye to be sure no one was watching and tugged at the front of her gown, wincing when the stays budged but only enough to alleviate some of the strain on her chest. Her head lifted, her long neck accentuated by the ornate necklace her father had given her. A family heirloom of sorts, with some of the finest gems coming straight from Erebor. The gown resembled the color of gold, accentuated by darker fabrics, the bodice pushing what little chest she inherited upward. She looked the role her father intended her.

Gondor's true Princess, a beautiful, virtuous, dutiful woman of noble upbringing who excelled in the maintenance of an estate, as well as exceeded the other ladies in court with her needlework. Things which were meant to impress the King, and yet made Lothíriel wish for no more than to shrink further and further into the ground in hopes they would forget about her. Other, more excited noble Gondorian ladies giggled as the King passed, their cheeks a bright scarlet. Their hands all hidden behind their palms, trying always to uphold their perfect exterior. Lothíriel scoffed at the notion and peered down the line, counting another three ladies before he reached her.

Branniel, her dearest friend and lady stood beside her brother, Amrothos. The two mingled by a white pillar. Every so often the two would point out a lady, or comment on the whole affair. Lothíriel whimpered under her breath at the thought of her sadness supplying their joy - however indirectly. The girl passed her a comforting smile and waved her to focus on the duty at hand. _'You are doing wonderful, Lothy.'_ Lothíriel's chest heaved at Branniel's words.

The sound of footfalls met her ears, and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth squeezed his daughter's hand. She need not upturn her head to know who would be standing there. Though as she did, her breath whooshed from her lungs. The stays felt like a weight on top of her chest as she looked upon his face. Shoulder length hair, pale and so very unlike the typical dark hair Gondorian's inherited. His eyes were those of a cats, angled and beautiful, like gleaming topaz. The hardened jaw captured her attention next, the sculpted curve of his face, the way his nose, though asymmetrical, had a small indent at the bridge which spoke of many breaks after battling -

"My daughter, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. The loveliest in all of Gondor, though I do admit I am biased."

Lothíriel dropped into a bow at her father's words, finding herself pulled upright by a hand around her own. Éomer looked up at her and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then returned the gesture, his body bending at the waist. The other ladies around her groaned at the sight of the King and the Princess, and she wanted no more than to shout that they could keep him. She did not want him. She would have screamed it from the battlements were her father not so serious about how _great the alliance would be for both Gondor and Rohan._ So, that firmly placed within her mind, she smiled prettily up at the King and felt his gaze follow hers until he continued down the line to the other ladies in court.

Lothíriel held her position in line up until he reached the very last lady, then joined Branniel, their arms hooked at the elbow. She prattled on endlessly about the way the King looked at her, how even from their short interaction Éomer had never seen a woman so lovely. The Princess groaned at the very thought; she would have preferred Éomer King found her orcish - an ugly creature he could not bare to behold everyday for the rest of his life. Still, she continued side by side with her dear friend and settled down at one of the many tables littering the room. Amrothos joined shortly after, his eyes settling on Branniel. Lips spread wide, like the sly, devious man he took pleasure in being.

"Branniel, you should have been in line with the other ladies. The King would lose his wits were he to be graced with your presence," he said, his voice holding a teasing lilt.

"Ignore him," Lothíriel said, "I have been ignoring him my whole life, and I am much better for it."

Branniel blushed and swirled her spoon around in her bowl, her hand cupped over her chest. Even in the pale light the hall provided, she _was_ a sight to behold, and the Princess almost wished she could pretend to be her for some time. Slip away behind the scenery, living a luscious life but never having to get herself into an uncomely situation. Her dark hair curled around her shoulders and bounced when she spoke, her laughter filling the grand hall before long. Lothíriel leaned my head against my brother's shoulder and listened to her tales. Fantastical things, dreamed up machinations of her pretty mind, and she sighed at the comfort she brought whenever near. If Éomer King were to choose the Princess, he would have to tear the curly haired woman away from her in order to leave her behind. And even then she would fight him tooth and nail to keep her by her side.

She needed her almost as much as she needed her own family, and loved her as such. Since her mother had passed away when she was no more than a wisp of a girl, as Lothíriel's own had, the two relied on one another for womanly thought of her brother courting Branniel passed her mind more than once, and though she knew her father would approve of the match were they to make it public, he feared for her heart. Branniel deserved a man who fell at her feet and cherished her every breath, her every smile, her every word. She deserved a man girls spoke of as children, giddy with the idea of a man atop a proud mount, handsome, brave, kind and loving. Things of which the Princess knew were rare, yet held onto in hopes of being one of the lucky ones. Amrothos, through all of those things, held one fault: he enjoyed the pleasures of women. Many women. Branniel deserved a man who refused to stray from their bed; she deserved a man with eyes only reserved for her.

Lothíriel looked over at her brother, his handsome features bright with whatever it was Branniel spoke of. One would have to be a fool to not realize he was smitten with the curly haired woman in front of him, what with the way he stared at her like she was the only woman in a room presently filled with some of the loveliest ladies she had ever seen. Her heart ached for his longing, and to hide her grief she turned her head to take in the rest of the room.

There at the dais were the two Kings, Gondorian and Rohir, hunched low and speaking with one another. Her eyes ghosted Éomer King's face, his beautiful eyes, the chiseled jaw as he spoke. Gone was the proud face many spoke of from far off, replaced by that of a young man excited to be with his dearest friend. Jovial and bright...gleeful even. She imagined what it must have been like to one day be no more than a Marshal, no expectation of ruling, and then have his life come tumbling down before him like the walls holding aloft the hall.

Deciding not to dwell on the matter, Lothíriel turned her focus onto the feast to be had. All around the room women donned in their finest dresses plucked little snacks from endless rows of food prepared to perfection for the arrival of the Rohir. None of which any woman would allow a King to catch her eating. No, the lot here wanted to be the image of perfection. Fine tuned, Gondorian nobles - as prudish and slender as they could appear, despite even knowing what kind of woman Éomer _preferred._ Unabashed, Lothíriel rose from her seat and made way across the dining hall, aware of the gazes of the other ladies as they settled upon her. Already painted with an arrow on her back, their bows aimed at the ready. With a sly grin, she moved in between Laneth and Roslynne, snatching a piece of bread from a platter overflowing with delicacies.

"I cannot believe she eats like that," Roslynne murmured behind her hand, aghast at the sight of the Princess with her bread in one hand, while searching for more food with the other. "It is almost as if she doesn't wish for Éomer King to notice her. I would not mind one bit. Let her waist grow - then _I_ will be the loveliest lady in Gondor-"

"Roslynne, do not wish ill of the Princess." Laneth cried out, scandalized by her companion's words. Lothíriel arched a brow in curiosity, smirking to herself as she popped a handful of grapes in her mouth.

"She is vying for Éomer King's love just as we are, my foolish friend. And it would do her well to recognize I am sure that the King has no wishes for a _fat_ wife."

"Ladies... _Princess_ , I hope you are enjoying the evening," Éomer called, making his way over to their gathering place.

Lothíriel's half eaten bread tumbled onto a platter, her eyes widening at the thought of another now eating the food she contaminated. With a strangled moan, she whirled around and bowed before the king, watching as Laneth and Roslynne did the same, smiling like two idiots at the sight of the man. Roslynne knew what she desired, and Lothíriel pitied Eomer...almost, upon realization that the woman would not give up until she secured her position as his bride. Laneth, on the other hand, waved her hand in front of her face, recalling a story she heard of Éomer's bravery and prowess.

"I do not wish to speak of war, Ladies."

"Forgive my dear friend, Laneth, Éomer King. She is most excited to have you here in Gondor, and when she gets excited she forgets herself."

Roslynne leaned forward, her hand curled around the crook of the King's. Taking her hint, Éomer smiled at the other two and walked off arm-in-arm with the beautiful brunette, her hips waving in what Lothíriel imagined she thought to be seduction, but really came off as a woman looking as though she had some bowel ailment and needed to relieve herself.

"Laneth, you do know you need not allow her to speak to you like that," Lothíriel said to the other woman, watching as her lip trembled.

Laneth covered her face with her palm, her eyes widened at the sight of the Princess before her. The two, though never overly fond of one another, held one thing in common: a dislike for Roslynne. If there were anything they might forge a bond over, it was the lack of love they shared for the woman. Laneth pushed her braided mane of dark hair over her shoulder, her hazel eyes meeting the Princess' grey ones. She whispered her thanks and gestured toward the center of the room, where Éomer King twirled around to a familiar tune.

"Let us join them!" Lothíriel gripped onto the other woman's shoulders.

"It is highly improper for two noble ladies to dance unaccompanied, Princess."

"It is _highly_ improper that we are forced to spend the night awaiting a beck and call from Himself. I say we take it upon ourselves to make our presence known. After all, he has to choose one of us as his bride." And, hopefully, her display ensured he did _not_ pick her.

Laneth considered this for a moment, a finger to her chin, and wrapped her finger's around the other woman's. Lothíriel giggled at the prospect of doing something frowned upon, watching around the room as many glanced their way, covering their mouths with palms, hiding their deceitful words. She smiled to herself, enthused with the response toward her ruse. The song had changed into something unusual, an up tempo beat which made her heart throb in her chest. She felt her body moving to the music, watching as Laneth struggled to make sense of what she overheard. Some of the Rohirrim Éomer had brought along with him craned their necks toward the center of the room, pointing to the Princess. Whispering, speaking...spreading the word that the Gondorian Princess was no more than a fool of a girl and not fitted for the role of Queen.

Or so she imagined, for when she heard the sound of a man clearing her throat behind her and watched the rounds of Laneth's eyes grow in shock, her stomach plummeted. Roslynne pouted, arms folded across her chest, pushing her already ample bosom upward. _No, you are meant to be dancing with her, not me!_ And yet the man held out a hand, and her father's serious expression on his face alerted her she dared not refuse. Bowing, she walked a little distance away and raised her hands in the air, not touching Éomer's. They moved around the floor to the unfamiliar tune, his movements trained and practiced. She knew then the song was that of _his_ people. The fast, almost barbaric thump of the instruments sending a fiery jolt through her veins.

Their movements were awkward at first. Short, as they tried to get used to how the other moved. Before long she swirled around on the floor with him, kicking her feet and dancing in a way which made her feel like she was doing something _wrong._ Something dangerous, wild and carefree _._ The Gondorian nobles around the room looked horrified, their faces drawn and eyes widened at the sight of their once fair Princess hulking around with the foreign king. Yet on the other side of the room, the men of Éomer's Éored clapped to the music and smiled at the display.

As the song ended and they stepped further away from one another, Lothíriel's chest heaving, and Éomer leaned down to press another kiss to the back of her hand. Her head swirled, heart throbbed, and palms - though never having met Éomer's - were slicked with sweat. His eyes met hers - hazel meeting the stormy gaze of his partner. "Thank you for your time, Princess." And he was off, moving to introduce himself to the other families in attendance and their hopeful daughters.

Her father's unamused growl met her ears, and she nearly tripped over her skirts in effort to race after him in apology. "You are meant to be conducting yourself like a lady, and yet here you are dancing in a way that sends the wrong message to those around you -"

"What message would that be, my dearest Father?" Her words were clipped, her face hardened. "You were the one who forced me to parade around in front of him like a prize horse to be ridden."

" _Lothíriel_. _"_ At her suggestion, he tugged her down a side hallway separate from the dining hall and waved a hand in front of his face. His cheeks were brightened a deep scarlet. "You are a Princess. A true Princess of Gondor, and you have been raised for this."

"I do not _want_ this."

"It seems we are at an impasse then, because you know Rohan and Gondor need this alliance."

Lothíriel paused in her pacing. "Then he can pick one of the other ladies. No marriage contract has been written, he is opened to any other eligible woman here."

Her father said nothing, and she feared she had said something irreversible. Though she didn't have long to ponder on it, for her brother, Amrothos, appeared at the end of the corridor, his eyes brightened in unknowing naïveté. Lothíriel flashed her father a scowl and raced over to her brother's side, taking his appearance as a way out of an increasingly stressful situation.

"What did Father want?" Amrothos asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

Lothíriel glanced over her shoulder at the man in question, his shoulders hunched forward, form rigid. "Nothing important."


	2. CHAPTER TWO

**CHAPTER TWO:**

The air smelled like carnage, even after the war. The Pelennor, now scarred by the battles which took place on it, never quite returned fully to what it had been before all the death and destruction. Still, there was something beautiful about the war ravaged lands. The way it spoke of bravery and will - of the strength to overcome even the mightiest of enemies. These were the fields where her family had fought, where her father's men had shed their blood and died for their people. The same fields where many men, near and far, came to fight. Where many expected to taste death, and too many succumb to it.

It was on these fields Lothíriel found herself settled on a rock, perched in the midst of the now growing fields, watching as the amber glow of the sun peeked over the horizon. Her hands were curled around the hard edges of the protrusion, her skirts unfurled about her legs which were folded beneath her in a fashion which would make her father's blood boil. Here she found peace...here she found a place to get away from the hustle and bustle of the court. Something about the sound of birds chirping overhead, the scent of fresh life growing filled the air, blades of grass brushing against her ankles as she passed by. Here she was no more than a young woman with no title.

The ladies of court dared not to be found out in the sun, their perfect complexions unmarred by freckles. Especially now that they paraded themselves before the king. The quiet solace the fields provided was a happy distraction from such, and much needed after her brief altercation with her father.

Soon after their argument, she'd returned back to the hall to dance the remainder of the night away in the arms of her brother. No one spoke on the manner in which their father eventually returned to the gathering, his face flushed, shoulders tensed. Displeased was the first word which had popped into her mind, followed by disappointed.

Choosing to not dwell on it any longer, she ran her fingers along the petals of a rose she had plucked earlier, appreciating the delicate surface. Her finger traveled downward, glided across the smooth stem. A gasp spilled from parted lips, an unannounced thorn making its presence known to the girl.

"Roses have thorns," Éomer said. Lothíriel turned her head at the sound of his voice, droplets of blood coasting down her palm, traveling in the direction of her wrist. "Surely you knew that."

"It is easy to forget something so beautiful comes with a price, Éomer King."

Éomer stepped closer to the Princess, his hand extended to her. She held aloft the wounded finger and allowed him to sit down beside her on the grass. He reached into a pocket and tugged out a handkerchief, gold lettering embroidered onto the corner. She figured them to be his initials, and hissed at the feel of his hands against hers. So calloused and weathered by years of war and battle, very much unlike her own.

"I have to ask," she began, dragging her fingers along the stone, "what brings you out here away from all of the livelihood?"

"All of the livelihood."

She laughed, understanding. "Did you enjoy your welcoming feast?"

"I did...I wanted to speak to you about it, actually."

She bit her lip at the gentle swipe of his fingers against the thickest part of her thumb. How a finger could bleed so freely, she would never understand, though the way he held her hand...so gentle in his own, she wanted no more than to pretend it _didn't_ elicit a response from her. Deciding to distract herself from the broad swipe of his finger against the inside of her wrist, right against the pulse point, she lifted her head and said, "Oh, what of?"

"While the Rohirrim enjoyed the display, I take it not all were as thrilled to see their Princess dancing like a -"

"Barbarian? Fool?" She blushed, scandalized by the fact she'd cut off the King. At the fear quickly filling her eyes, he smiled, encouraging her to continue. "I may have received a few remarks." Roslynne in particular called her an orc after the two had returned to their seats at the end of the night, unknowing she'd overheard her.

"I ask that you pay them no mind, Princess. I enjoyed dancing with you very much."

"As did I." She bit her lip and smiled. "I hope you are enjoying your stay in Minas Tirith."

"Aye," he said, returning his kerchief into his pocket. "It is always a pleasure, though it's so much different than Rohan."

"May I ask what Rohan is like?"

There was a good chance she would never venture far enough to see the rolling planes many spoke of. And though it was her deepest hope to never travel there under the pretense of a marriage, she could not keep the interest at bay. Eomer paused, his eyes widened at her desire to know about his home.

"Rohan is very much different than Gondor. I do not think ill of Gondor, Princess, believe me! Do not take offense to what I say." Her palm against his forearm stopped him before he turned to a rambling mess. She whispered for him to speak freely and upon the clearing of his throat he continued, "Here everything is...boxed in. People don't speak freely, don't act freely. I mean, I did not see one lady eat much more than a grape at the feast. In Rohan we celebrate life and _passion_.

"We don't hide our emotions, instead we wear them like a badge of honor. Don't take that to mean we are weak - we are warriors through and through. But the Rohirrim are a people of passion and strength. As for Rohan...you would have to see it to understand the beauty of it."

Lothíriel felt her heart constrict at the way he spoke, the love for his people imbued in every word. It was no wonder he was greatly loved and revered by his people - no wonder his Uncle before him named him heir to his throne. Éomer wore his title as King with the highest honor.

"I do believe you would enjoy it if you were to ever spend time there," he continued, an uncertain lilt in his tone.

"I am sure I would, Éomer King."

The two conversed about pleasantries after that. Topics like the weather, what he thought of some of his prospective wives thus far. His lack of interest in Roslynne's advances, though he would never alert the woman of his true breadth of his feelings toward her. His short stay in Gondor was meant as a way to secure an alliance and garner himself a bride; he had no wish to create strife in said households he was trying to join together. Lothíriel spoke highly of the other ladies - pushing him in the direction of Laneth...the beautiful, dark haired beauty with a kind heart and sweet soul. He seemed intrigued by her words, admitted he never considered her, and thanked the Princess for the suggestion.

"I will request her for a dance tonight, my lady, though I do wish you would save one for me as well...if it would please you?"

"I am sure I could save you _one_." The smirk playing on her lips earned a laugh from the man.

"I look forward to it, Princess."

-xx-

Though her father would detest her for lack of tact, she prided herself in her skill with a blade. After the War of the Ring, when she had been trapped within the walls of Minas Tirith and bound to the Houses of Healing for days - despite her father's wishes for her to remain at home - and nights on end, she desired to be better equipped should the need arise. Though orcs no longer ran rampant except for a few stray bands found here and there, though nothing like before, she wanted to be prepared if she were found unarmed and unawares by any foe. Amrothos argued with her on the matter at first, shocked she would even suggest a thing, but not before long his resolve crumbled at the sight of his little sister's face, her lips tugged downward, her arms wrapped around his form.

Thus the two sparred in the courtyard, ignorant of the eyes around them. When she wielded her blade it was her, her weapon, and her attacker. Each strike of her arm, each blow aimed at his weakest points was enacted with purpose, each parry of her own blade like a dance the two siblings had perfected. A push and pull, an ebb and flow. The constant pulse of a heart, each beat another movement, each strike an inhale and an exhale.

Her brother grunted with exertion, and though the Princess hid her exhaustion, her body ached under the constant strain of defending his blows. He remained steadfast, never eased up on his sibling, for fear that a foe would never do the same. When he'd agreed to train her, he admitted as such; he would go all out with her, never abating, because if the time arose when she needed to defend herself he wanted her to be well trained.

 _Inhale._ Strike _. Exhale._ Parry _._ She repeated the pattern over and over again until her fatigue slipped into the catacombs of her mind, replaced by the blood roaring in her ears. Heat radiated from her every limb, muscles activated. Branniel cheered in the distance, her hair whipping around her face in the chilled wind. Amrothos paused for a moment at the sound of their new intruder, and it was all Lothíriel needed to claim her victory. With a swift kick at the back of her brother's knee, she drove him downward to the ground, blade curved around the front of his neck, her chest at his back. He laughed, a sound so odd from a defeated 'foe,' and jerked his shoulders upward, knocked her backward and snatched her sword as it clattered against the ground. A second later the same blade hovered over her throat, her brows knitted together in fury.

"You were defeated!"

"I was not, sister mine. You assumed," he said, sheathing her blade in the scabbard against her hip before he retrieved his own. "Were this a real battle, you would have _died._ You cannot allow yourself even a moment of arrogance; that slip up is what will cause someone to slit that pretty little throat of yours from ear to ear."

Lothíriel groaned, propping herself up on her now skimmed elbows. Her father would have a fit if he had seen the two, especially in the garb she'd worn to the courtyard. A tunic that hung past her hands, and a pair of trousers which, despite being a size or two too big for her body, were highly inappropriate for a Princess intended to be a possible bride for a king. The dirt along her forehead and cheeks accentuated this, and she need not look at her behind to know she was covered from head to toe in muck.

Branniel rushed forward to help the younger woman up off the ground, her cheeks flushed from the excitement of the scene. "What, no help from a beautiful lady for me?" Amrothos asked, earning a blush out of the curly headed brunette with emerald eyes.

"I...ah...my lady..."

"Hush, Amrothos, you are making her uncomfortable," Lothíriel groaned, patting her trousers in hopes of alleviating some of the dirt stains. "And in making her uncomfortable, you have made me uncomfortable. Must you always try to woo any woman you come into contact with?"

"I have not tried to woo any ladies, or have you forgotten, dear sister?" His words, though aimed at his sister, were said as he locked eyes with Branniel. She turned a shade darker in the face and gripped Lothíriel's arm tighter.

Branniel cleared her throat, turning her head away from the man. "My lady, I came to help you get ready for the feast tonight. People have been talking endlessly of the King and how he danced with you at the feast last night."

"I have already pushed him in Laneth's direction, so I do not mind remaining in these clothes the remainder of the day."

"Sister, must you always be so stubborn? You are acting like a child."

Branniel, taking this as a good time as any to leave, excused herself with a curtsy and told the Princess she would be waiting for her in her bedchamber. Amrothos folded his arms across his chest and watched the woman as she walked away, curls bouncing with every step, before he turned back to his younger sibling and raised a brow in her direction.

"That conversation you had with father...the one you said was nothing important," he began, leading her over to a bale of hay to sit upon. "What was really said?"

"He did not appreciate my display with the king, and even less did he enjoy the fact I've been working hard to keep his attention off of me."

"You are going to hate what I am about to say, but you know it is your duty as Princess to expect this sort of arrangement," Amrothos pointed out, curling his fingers with hers. She frowned, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

"I do not like it," she admitted after some time, refusing to let her frustrated tears spill from her eyes. "No one asked me how I felt about all of this; Instead I'm put on display before a man I don't know, and expected to act a certain way to please him. I don't want to please anyone. I don't even know if I _ever_ wish to marry if this is what my life is to look like: endless parties, suitable matches, and judged solely on my looks and ability to carry a child."

"There are worse matches, you must realize that. Éomer King is a handsome man...is he not? At least the ladies have said so. And he is a kind man, he cares about his people and he fights for them in spirit and truth. He would do the same for the bride he chooses, I can promise you that," he said, sighing. "If not him, who knows the man father tries to marry you off to. It could be worse."

He had a point. She'd seen many ladies get married to men twice their age, expected to warm their beds every night with little to no enthusiasm for the matter. She shuddered at the thought of someone with gray hair, old enough to be her father, calling her wife and mother to his sons.

"I always pictures myself falling in love with the man I would one day marry, even though I know how unrealistic of a wish that is. You must think me silly."

He cupped her jaw with his palm, the weight of her head rolling into his gesture. "I will always love you, and I will always wish the best for you, but you must realize that this is not as horrible as you are making it out to be. You may even find yourself _enjoying_ the king's presence, if you allow him to."

She considered his words, though her eyes remained downcast. "I would have to leave you if I married him, and yet you push me in his direction."

"I will hate whatever man you marry for that reason alone, but Éomer is a friend of mine and our brothers. And a dearer friend to Father," he said, cupping her hands in his. "So if I have to give you away to someone else, I would rather it be to someone I can at least _slightly_ trust with my favorite sister."

"I am your only sister, you fool."

"And that is why you are my favorite." He laughed at her ire, poking her nose with the tip of his finger.

Deciding to linger no more on thoughts of the king, which became harder since his arrival, she leaned forward and shoved her brother. Hard. He groaned as his back met the ground, and laughed at the weight of his sister on his form. She pinned him there, her cheeks still flushed from their earlier sparring session. Curls fell forward onto his face, and he swatted them halfheartedly with the palms of his hands.

"Want to do something childish, since you said I've been acting like one?"

He tilted his head to the side, shoving her off of him. Raised up on his elbows, he tipped his jaw upward and said, "Keep talking."

"We race...to the doors of the hall."

"You do realize how many people there are in Minas Tirith...how many people will spot both of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth's youngest children running around like a pair of barbarians."

"Minas Tirith is filled with barbarians, technically," she supplied, smirking, "The men in the Éored all look like they might as well be. I wouldn't be surprised if they could lop Roslynne's head off in one blow without blinking."

"She is not _that bad_ -" At his sister's narrowed eyes, he continued, "Okay, she's horrible. _But_ I do like the idea of another challenge. Shall we, sister mine?"

The pair gathered themselves off the hay soiled ground, dusting off their clothes, determination bright in their eyes. Just as she gathered her wits about herself, Amrothos shoved his sister sideways, earning a sharp gasp from the girl. Startled, she tumbled backward onto her rear. Her brother laughed as he went, howling like a coyote would at the moon. _I'm going to kill you!_ She nearly shrieked at him, her hands and feet scrambling to grip onto the earth before she barreled after him, boots kicking soil and dirt.

Soldiers working in the other rings turned as the two passed, shouting their annoyance as they disrupted them. Lothíriel nearly dodged the blow of a sword, ducking between the two men, and leaping over a rack of shovels and axes. Amrothos made a sharp right turn, which she noted turned down a deep slope. Her brother, seemingly unprepared for the change in altitude, tumbled forward, his arms waving as he struggled to stay afoot. Laughing at his demise, the girl gained on his advantage, using his back as a springboard. The man yelled, his voice muffled by the grass which he now guzzled at the pressure of her foot against his shoulder blades.

"You cheated!"

"So did you!" She called back, gasping as a low hanging branch curled in her hair and snagged. "Getoffme!" She swatted aimlessly at the air, or so she thought.

Something hard collided with her palm. Hard and warm. It smelled very much like man...sweaty man. A man who'd just been training, she supposed. As she glanced upward and caught the sharp intake of her brother's breath as he joined close behind her, she dropped into a bow, covering her soiled form from the man's eyes. Too late, now.

 _Oh no._

-xx-

Roslynne, beautiful as she was, talked endlessly of nothing and everything. Her favorite topic being herself. Her namesake, her beauty, her constant pool of suitors who doted upon her, the excess price her father had payed for the jewels which adorned her neck, the imported fabrics, tailored to fit her slender form. He tried... _really_ tried to enjoy her company, though he oftentimes found himself sickened to be near her.

So when Elfhelm returned with Æthelwulf, requesting they spend some time in the sparring ring, he could not deny the opportunity to escape the woman's clutches. Quite literally at that, for her arm almost always lingered against his, her face always near his. Frowning, the girl simpered at his request for leave and bid her farewell, kissing the back of her palm as he went.

Being in Minas Tirith, though a happy time for the reunion of friends, brought a sense of dread about him. He had one week to solidify a match - a woman of good breeding, health and status. His people needed this, and he needed his people; he felt there were no other alternative than to comply with his counselors on the matter. He'd never thought of marriage in the past. As a man who lived and died by the sword, his only dalliances with love were marred by lust. Passionate nights by firelight in Aldburg, fueled by the tempting gaze in her eyes and the ale running through his system. But in Rohan, such trysts were expected. _Accepted._ Here, women were frigid and hardened. Confined and boxed into what they thought was good and acceptable. _Safe._

He needed something different. Some _one_ different. And he questioned if a week provided him enough time to find someone who would satisfy that necessity. His highest prospects, most favored by his counselors, were Roslynne, Laneth and Princess Lothíriel. His men, however, leaned toward the odd Princess. They questioned the spark in her eyes, the way she'd danced with him, her girlish form swathed in modest dress giving hint at the woman pushing to break forth, how she dared to test the standards of her people. And as much as he wanted to agree with them, she never made herself present around him; always kept her eyes away from his, her voice faraway, as if she dreamed of being back home near her beloved sea.

Laneth, as suggested by Lothíriel, was his second choice. Beautiful and smart, though too timid for his preference. He feared if he brought her home to Rohan she might hide away in her Queen's chambers for the remainder of her days. She always smiled at the right times, however, always laughed at his jokes. Blushed when he plucked a rose off of a bush and pinned an errant curl away from her face. The way her eyes brightened when he drew near, how her head perked up as he called her name. Even _if_ she hid from his people, he knew she would remain at his side. Could already see it in her responses to him. He wondered, even, if there were already feelings developing on her end toward him. His chest tightened at the thought, though in response to _what_ he remained uncertain.

Æthelwulf scanned the parameters, and unsatisfied with prospective areas to train, settled on an emptied wooded area nearer to the castle. While the younger soldier and Elfhelm fought, Éomer sharpened his sword on a nearby stump. They spoke of things which would need to be tended to once they returned home, from patrols to checking up on the Dunlending issue they'd been struggling with. A few bands of orcs still lingering after the war also appeared here and there, and the wish to eradicate them fully was shared by many. Any memories of the dark times they survived through were more than happily replaced by the positive thoughts of times yet to come.

Such was the impending nuptials between Éomer and whomever he chose at the end of the week. A marriage to boost the alliance and morale between people. It was hardly unfair, but thus was the life he found himself thwarted into.

"Did you hear that?" Æthelwulf asked, grunting when the flat side of Elfhelm's blade thwacked against his shoulder.

"Sounds like some sort of argument, likely nothing. You two continue, Æthelwulf needs more practice with defending his right side. I'll go on ahead."

Curiosity brimmed at the surface of his mind. Typically, Gondorian's were a peaceful people. The thought of some excitement stirred something within his chest. However, he did not expect the flurry of his dear friend Amrothos and his younger sister, their legs pumping as they raced after one another, the Princess in the lead. Éomer realized too late he was in the line of fire, and found himself barreled into by the younger woman, her otherwise slender form comparable to that of a horse when paired with her speed. Too late she realized her predicament, dropping into a bow and covering her dirtied form with her slender arms. As if it would hide the muck. Behind her Amrothos laughed nervously, his head bowed, arm crossed over his chest.

"Brother, it is not as it looks." Amrothos stepped forward, earning a short whimper from his sister.

The young king glanced between the two, a smirk lining his lips. Both of the siblings wore swords on their persons. He glanced over his shoulder toward where his men were sparring and made up his mind. Lothíriel narrowed her eyes in confusion, as though she expected him to reprimand them like children for their behavior. However an opportunity as such seemed too good to pass up.

"You two were training?" he asked, more so to the girl than her sibling.

"A bit..." she trailed off, uncertainty lining her voice.

"Amrothos, it has been some time since we trained together and I am in need of a partner. Would you and your sister join me?"

The two siblings looked to one another, and Amrothos dipped his head, following behind the young king. Princess Lothíriel dragged her feet behind them, rubbing furiously at the dirt streaking her pale cheeks. Éomer found her to be endearing, her thus far seemingly flawless features roughed up, the apples of her cheeks flushed even beneath all the muck.

Elfhelm and Æthelwulf looked shocked at the arrival of the group when they appeared, Æthelwulf staring a little _too_ long at the Princess clad in none more than a billowy tunic and a pair of trousers which hung limply around her slender form. Amrothos barked at him to continue on with his training upon realizing the appreciative grin which formed on the Rohir's face, earning a low chuckle from Éomer.

"I can defend myself, Amrothos," Lothíriel said, though loud enough for the rest to overhear her.

"I know you can, and I would love to see you stick a sword in his belly, but alas today is not that day." He swooped down and kissed her forehead, before brandishing his weapon and readying himself before Éomer. "A token of luck, sister mine?"

She leaned forward with a giggle and kissed his cheek, before stepping back and joining Elfhelm and Æthelwulf. Éomer smiled down at her, moving to stand in front of Amrothos and readying himself as well. With the shout of _go_ , the two whirled around the grass. The fight was beautiful, their movements like a dance. Each step Amrothos took, Éomer took another, back and fourth, back and fourth like a pendulum. When they finished, the men all spoke amongst themselves, leaving Lothíriel sitting in the distance, running her fingers through the tangled mass of hair which had spilled from the long braid she kept it in.

Éomer, contemplated joining her, the thought infiltrating his mind without consent. Thus far their conversations proved lackluster, her wishes to keep the focus _off_ of her duly noted. He knew, not only from her actions but from the words around court, that she did not want him as a husband - that she did not want any man as her husband, though duty reminded her otherwise. Still, despite all of this, he wandered over to her side, muttering to Amrothos and the other men to go on ahead.

"We keep meeting in the strangest circumstances, Éomer King."

Her words were hushed, filled with uncertainty. _Nervousness_. She dusted her clothes once more, a habit he realized became more and more frequent. Beneath all the dirt she looked just as beautiful as the first day he'd met her, standing in line in a dress she was never born to wear. Tailored in the colors of Rohan, a little flair he appreciated and found himself amused by. Standing there now she looked ethereal. Windswept, her hair in disarray... _raw_ , unfiltered Lothíriel. Yet he would never tell her of his thoughts, the way he thought she were the most singular woman, even after spending the earlier part of his day with Roslynne and Laneth.

"So it seems. Béma must have a purpose for all of it," he laughed, fear flooding her gaze. At her discomfort, his head tossed back in a loud guffaw. "I am teasing you, Princess."

"Right. I am sorry for my state of dress...you see my brother has been training me in secret for some time now. I was in Minas Tirith during the War. I had fled from home before the shadow came out of Mordor; I thought I could do something to help my people...my family. When my father realized what I had done, he and my Lord Uncle Denethor demanded I stay in the Healing Houses." She sighed, shaking her head. "It was _something_ , but then one of the healers demanded I find _athelas_ for one of the sick. When I went looking for it, there were still orcs running about. One of them attacked my guard and I, and I wasn't prepared.

"I decided that day I would never again be unprepared for a circumstance where my life could be in danger. I didn't wish to hide behind another being; I wanted to rely on my own strength. So Amrothos suggested I learn how to use a blade," she explained, her fingers twining around the hilt of her sword. "I'm not skilled, in fact I'm pretty terrible. _But_ I would like to think I'm trying. Which is why you cannot tell my father. I know we are not much more than acquaintances, but please don't tell him of what you have seen today."

"I saw nothing, Princess."

Truth be told he hadn't. He hadn't seen more than the remnants of her sparring on the clothes she wore. But the smile which brightened her face made his words worth their weight, his chest tightening at the way she bounced on the balls of her feet with joy. _So young_ , he thought to himself, watching the profile of her face as she resumed her steps beside him, her rounded jaw, her slender nose, the slight curve of her nose. The turn of her lips, just at the corner always in place.

The way she danced with him, her body moving to the music's tantalizing beat. How her hips had twisted in a way he was certain they'd never moved before. The frantic pulse of the music, a quicker beat than she was used to. The flush of her cheeks when she noticed the people watching her, and yet she continued, her curls swirling about her face and back, framing her striking face.

Yet he could see the innocence in her gaze, the unfamiliarity with danger - her gilded cage still enveloping her.

"But I have one request of you."

Her head perked up. "What is it you wish, Éomer King?"

"I have spent time with each of the ladies thus far... _except_ you. I wish to go riding tomorrow, and as I am not familiar with the surroundings, I will need a guide." Understanding dawned on her, her cheeks coloring in the slightest. "Of coarse we will have a chaperone, but I would like very much if you would join me."

She tucked her bottom lip in her teeth, her palm smoothing along the back of her neck.

"I will join you."

-xx-

Branniel stood behind the Princess, pinning her hair behind her head in intricate braids. Groups of four, joining at the back of her head, highlighting the sharp curve of her cheekbones. The dress she wore brought out the gray of her eyes, a deep maroon, cut lower than her typical tastes. She had tugged at the fabric more than once, trying to cover her gooseflesh covered chest, at which Branniel shushed her protests and smacked her hand away. Tonight would be filled with food and dancing, laughter and excitement - anticipation for which ladies would be requested to dance with the king.

After returning to her bedchamber with Éomer, avoiding the critical gazes of many around her, Branniel nearly squealed in excitement. _"You were with him! You must tell me everything!"_ In all reality, there wasn't much to tell. She found every time she happened to end up in his presence, her words left her throat and she couldn't formulate the words she wanted to speak. And now she had agreed to go riding with him the next day, joined by a chaperone, yet still in a closed enough situation where she would have to entertain his company.

Her chest ached with the mere idea of being alone with the man, though she knew she could not ignore him for much longer. Four more days, and then he would return to Rohan. Try as she might, her father would disapprove with her should she not allow any advancement of a _relationship_ to take place between them, and she feared what might happen if they got into another disagreement like the one they shared on the first night.

"You are going to be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight," Branniel said, sighing as she twirled around the room like one would dance with a partner. "It is so romantic, really. A noble king, a beautiful Princess..."

"You have been reading and writing too many of those stories you seem to never move your nose out of. Branniel, you are my dearest friend, but I beg you to give up on the idea of the King and I being anything more than acquaintances. We will not get married, and we will most _certainly_ not fall in love." Lothíriel tried to laugh at her own words, her face pinched in a sour look of distaste. "Why, I have a feeling we may be attending _Laneth's_ wedding sooner than we expected."

Without saying any more on the matter, the pair made their way down the halls of their dwelling and bowed before Amrothos and Elphir, who were expected to accompany the women. The herald called their names from the doors of the hall, earning a quiet pause in the happenings around them. Eyes drifted toward the dark haired group, some scrunched up in the face at the sight of the Princess' gown for the evening. _Good,_ she thought, a delighted smile forming on her lips. At the end of the long tables, Amrothos and Branniel split from the group and joined together in conversation, leaving Lothíriel with her elder brother.

"You look beautiful tonight, Lothy."

At his words, the woman smiled, her face radiating heat. The conversation between siblings turned brief, however, upon the sighting of her dear cousin, Faramir, entering the hall. A beautiful blonde walked in beside him, his new bride and sister to Éomer, Éowyn. His eyes captured her's a moment later, his footfalls increasing in speed until the two nearly tackled each other in an embrace, her elder cousin twirling her around in a gleeful circle. Lothíriel giggled into his shoulder, feeling her insides alive with excitement at seeing her favorite cousin once more. Behind him came an unimpressed snort, the sound jarring the two out of their reunion.

Lothíriel smiled at the fair haired woman, wincing at the hard expression lining the woman's features. She curtsied quickly, dipping her head and murmuring, "Lady Éowyn, it is good to see you! I am sorry I was not able to make your wedding, I was very ill and bedridden for some time after the war and my Father dared not let me travel."

Farmir turned to his wife, drew her into the curve of his arm and pushed her closer to the dark haired woman, grinning at the two. "This, my lovely wife, is my cousin..."

"Princess Lothíriel." Éowyn dropped into a curtsy. "I'm sorry, please forgive me."

"She is a bit scatterbrained as of late," Faramir explained, smiling warmly at his lovely wife. His hand moved to the now noticeably rounded stomach peeking out from the empire waist of her gown. "The healers think it's a boy."

"That is wonderful news!" Lothíriel said, leaning forward and hugging her cousin once more, before hesitantly enveloping his wife in an embrace.

"Princess Lothíriel, would you mind joining me -"

"My wife really just intends to raid the tables upon tables of food."

"And she has every right! She is eating for two, and if your son is anything like you when we were children, I expect she deserves to treat herself," Lothíriel nearly shouted, laughing at the amused smirk on the blonde's face. "Come, and don't call me Lothíriel, we are family now."

The two ladies found themselves piling their plates with food, unconcerned with whether or not their waistlines would expand should they eat too much.

"What is it like?" Lothíriel asked after some time, both women settled down at a far off table.

Éowyn cradled the bottom of her stomach, a hand tracing a pattern from one side to the other, smile settled into place. "I was terrified at first. I didn't think I _wanted_ to be a mother. For some time I thought of marriage as a cage, but I love your cousin, and now I carry a part of him within me. It's amazing what our bodies can do."

Lothíriel grinned at the prospect of being a mother one day. Though she never knew her own mother, she'd vowed at a young age to one day love her children deeply and fiercely. Unabashed and wholly, never missing a moment of their upbringing. Not for resentment toward her mother, but as a desire to make up for all the memories she'd never created with her.

"I do miss my freedom, however," Éowyn admitted, sighing. "My brother told me of your love of swordsmanship."

Lothíriel's eyes widened at her words, her chest tightening at the thought of her secret being revealed. "He swore he'd never tell a soul."

"Your secret is safe with me!" She quickly waved her hand in the air, laughing heartily.

"I'm not skilled...just learning to defend myself if the need be."

"I respect that, my lady. During the war it made me so angry to see so many women hiding and waiting for their death."

The Princess lifted her head, intrigue drawing her brows together. "I know, for myself at least, if I'm to die I want to die fighting."

"That's a most brave desire to have."

And she would die to hold onto it. Lothíriel lifted her goblet of wine in front of her, swirling the contents inside. She thought of the women and children alike hiding within the walls of their homes, trembling in fear of their enemies. She never wanted such a life for herself, and she smiled at the thought of the Rohir accepting her and not mocking her for being a wild creature as many before called her.

"I really am upset I was not able to attend your wedding."

"No...your father told us you were bedridden for many weeks. I understand, truly -"

"Lady Éowyn, that is such a _lovely_ gown! You look absolutely breathtaking!"

Roslynne cooed, appearing out of thin air. Lothíriel held back the bile which burned in the back of her throat upon the arrival of the woman, watching as Éowyn's face changed from most happy to utterly confused. Without a word, Roslynne dropped down beside the blonde haired woman, gushing over the curve of her belly. At one point, Lothíriel swore she saw the blonde's eye twitch in horror, unamused by the antics of the woman trying to woo her brother.

"It is true, then! So many complain that women look absolutely dreadful when with child, but you're glowing." Roslynne reached forward to touch the bowl of her belly, but Lothíriel grabbed her hand instead, putting on her forced smile for the sake of rescuing Éowyn from even further terror. "What is it, Princess Lothíriel, I was merely getting acquainted with Lady Éowyn. As you should as well! Why, she will become a sister to one of us soon enough."

Éowyn made a choking sound in the back of her throat, her drink spilling onto her lap, at which Lothíriel tried to hold back a giggle and ended up snorting. Roslynne narrowed her eyes. "You were raised by men, were you not, Princess?"

"What of it?"

"It just...reveals things of your nature," Roslynne said, snickering.

"I was raised by men as well, Lady Roslynne." Lothíriel breathed a sigh of relief at Éowyn's interjection. "So I am curious to know what you are insinuating."

Roslynne's feet began shuffling, her mouth opening and closing like a wish out of water. Her throat made an odd noise, like she was fighting to find the words to say and nothing would pour out. Instead she just stood there, dumbfounded. Her eyebrows knitted together, her hands twitched at her sides, and the vein in her forehead which pulsated when her temper flared strained against the surface of her pale skin.

"Excuse me, ladies."

And she was gone, leaving the pair staring down into the contents of their glasses, grinning to themselves like fools.

"Thank you, Lady Éowyn."

"It is no problem." She paused, her lips setting into a firm line. "I don't care who my brother marries at this rate, so long as it is not her. She was such a _vile_ little thing."

-xx-

Lothíriel leaned forward on her horse, her fingers clenched tight around the reins. Try as she might to deny the beautiful man before her, he was a sight to behold. Tall, broad shouldered, fair haired and corded with thick muscle. His eyes, which resembled honey, glimmered in the light, like the brightest of suns. They moved in companionable silence, until they reached a cliff, overlooking a river of which the name escaped Lothíriel's mind. The man dropped down from his horse and helped her to her feet, his hand warm and calloused around her own. With little effort he lifted her and helped her to slide down the creature's back, before steadying her on her feet beside him. Æthelwulf remained in close proximity atop his horse, watching birds flit across the sky.

In Gondorian fashion, and due to his stay with their people, Éomer was expected to bring along a chaperone on their outing, at which Lothíriel had breathed a great sigh of relief. She did not expect the man to mistreat her, but having someone else along for the day reminded her she was not _completely_ alone with the man.

So they sat atop the cliff, feet dangling over the edge. The Princess watched the man out of the corner of her eye, her cheeks flushed scarlet at the way he stared off into the distance, his jaw squared, his shoulders proud. A vision, at best, and she wrestled within herself to shove away the thoughts probing at her mind which questioned just how far her distaste for his presence in Gondora _really_ ran.

"I leave in three days, and yet I am no closer to choosing my bride. I fought against this, you must believe me when I say that. I never even thought I would marry. Not many woman would have enjoyed my previous title, and now I am overwhelmed by the weight of it all."

"Éomer King..."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have spoken so freely."

She shook her head, scooting a bit closer to his side. "I thought I might marry for love...once. But this week has made me realize that we don't have that choice - I don't have that choice. Many times I've been reminded that if not you, I will still be offered to someone else one day. It is the life we were born into, and the hand we have been dealt.

"I forget that you never asked for this. Not that I did either, but you never _expected_ any of this. You were not born into this life...and for that I am very sorry. I heard many stories of your Uncle and the love he bore his people - the prowess he held for battle. He was a wonderful man, from what I could gather. But you must realize he saw something within you which would make him pick you as his heir; I know regardless of your choice, he will be proud of you. And I hope that knowledge brings you some peace."

The man lapsed into silence, staring off into the distance with those eyes which mirrored a storm. The woman swallowed the thick knot forming in her throat and reached across the distance between them, brushing a hand across his forearm. A small gesture, of a friend to another friend, but even the slight brush made her jerk back. He noted this and lifted his gaze to her's, a smile flitting across his lips for a brief moment before settling back into a grimace.

"Do you think you could be happy?"

She paused, biting her lip. "Happy with what?"

"If I picked _you_...could you be happy?"

"I don't know. I could see us being friends, in time."

The truth.

He nodded his head at this, weighing her words. "And if I did choose you?"

"I would reluctantly accept. But I would be a loyal wife to you, in spirit and in truth; you would need not worry about that."

He didn't say anything in response to her words. Instead, he stood to his feet and started down the path of woods which led to the river below, calling to the girl to join him. She joined him, watching as he tugged his boots from his feet and dipped a bare toe in the water.

"You know, there is a tale which says all men who have swam in this river have ended up being dragged beneath its depths by a phantom sea wench."

"Is that so?"

"They say she particularly enjoys to feast on noble men. And as you are a King..." She smirked, kicking off her own boots.

"My lady, I will have you know I am a man of great courage."

"Courage cannot save you if you're being dragged beneath the water by a vengeful sea wench, and I can assure you _I_ certainly will not come to your aid. I value my life...and limbs."

"You offend me, my lady!" He clasped a hand over his heart, mocking wounded horror, before he disappeared into the river, then, his mane of blonde hair slipping beneath the surface. She jumped in after him, her skirts billowing around her. Somewhere nearby Æthelwulf groaned in exasperation, the sound falling unto deaf ears as the two laughed at the drenched forms of one another. Éomer, clearly not having thought of the rest of his clothing, tugged at the belt around his hips and tossed his sword against the grass beside them, watching as the Princess swam around him in one, giant loop.

"I take it you do not swim often in Rohan," she mused, her form bobbing up and down in the water.

He struggled to stay afloat a bit, his movements jerky and uncomfortable. "I take it you find amusement in poking fun at my faults," he said, ducking as she splashed him in jest.

"Only because you have easily become the least artificial person I have been around this week." A sad fact, but the truth.

"Yet you are so reluctant to be in my presence."

"Can you forgive me?" The laugh bubbling on her lips made him snort, a sound so unfamiliar to a woman who spent most of her time around stuffy nobles.

What seemed like a few moments of dreaded company turned into laughter and smiles for the next few hours. The two continued to swim in the river, ignorant of the annoyed chaperone sharpening his sword somewhere far off...deciding long ago that the two preferred the company of one another. _Without_ his huffing and puffing present. As the sun drifted further and further downward and began its slow trek behind the trees, the two ventured back to the overhang above the river and settled in the grass.

"Here, take my cloak. I don't think Prince Imrahil would appreciate if I allowed his daughter to catch her death because she decided to go swimming in a river."

She took the cloak about her shoulders and smiled as the material brushed against the skin of her cheek. "I don't think he would, either." Her chin dropped to her chest, a burning sensation filling her gaze for a reason she could not name. Sadness? Appreciation? And then -

"Éomer King -"

"- Princess Lothíriel."

Her face burned like coals on a fire, but it was he who spoke, "Go on."

"I wanted to thank you. You fought for my people and you saved my brother...Amrothos. He told me you were the one who killed the orc which was prepared to take his life. Not only is Gondor in debt to the bravery of you and your men, but my family is." Her eyes met his, his face softened. The hardened lines and contours of his face slipped for a moment, his bottom lip parted slightly. "I am especially. Although we share blood already, he is my dearest friend; were it not for you, I might not have him beside me like I do today."

"I -"

"Forgive me for interrupting, but I have received word from one of Prince Imrahil's sons that they are in need of Princess Lothíriel and she is requested to join her father in his study promptly." Æthelwulf dropped down from his horse then, eyeing the waterlogged couple.

Lothíriel cleared her throat and went to unclasp the cloak around her shoulders, thanking Éomer when he reached up to still her hands with his own. He fastened it back into place and told her to hold onto it. The burn in her eyes moved to her stomach, though this time not from sadness but something _different._ Something forbidden which she buried deeper within the catacombs of her mind as she joined Æthelwulf atop her own mount, her head bent low the whole ride back.

"Do you know what business my father has requested of me?"

"There is a man in his audience by the name of Lord Bartrand, and that is all I was told, Princess."

-xx-

Bartrand, owner of numerous armories and a dear friend to Lothíriel's eldest brother, prided himself in being a man of great power and wealth. Not only that, but he was striking - and beyond obviously so. Lighter brown hair, attributed to the fact his father had married a blonde woman, which was peppered with silver hairs here and there due to his older age. His squared face ended an angular jaw, proud cheekbones, and stunning blue eyes that mirrored the delicate slant of a cats.

He captured the attention of many by just being in the room, his bright personality attractive to most. Friends fawned over him, and ladies swooned in his presence. Even Roslynne, who was thus far immune to the charms of any _but_ Éomer blushed a pretty shade of scarlet when he kissed the back of her hand and expressed how radiant she was. A shining beacon of beauty. It seemed like everyone adored him. All besides Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, the reluctant princess who preferred to sigh whenever he drew near to her, instead of fall at his feet like the other ladies in court.

He currently sat beside her, talking about the latest sword he'd crafted. A hilt shaped like a swan and his favorite creation. She cupped her palm over her mouth, excusing herself as another yawn passed through her lips. All the while, he leaned closer to her, his fingers brushing along the curve of her thumb to put an emphasis on what he was saying. Unnecessary, but she said nothing of it, for her father watched from across the two, watching her every move.

His ulterior motives were presented almost immediately. Upon entering her father's study, she saw the two men hunched low in quiet conversation, their hushed tones hinting at conspiring. Without saying anything on the matter, she had coughed and watched both men jump back from one another, both apologizing for their obliviousness to her company. The man had always shown a particular interest in the girl from a young age, always commenting on her beauty and making remarks about how she would grow into a wonderful woman one day. And as she now sat next to him, his fingers warm against her own, she wished she could turn back time to when she was a girl and men would simply leave her alone and let her be.

"It has been some time since I have last seen you, Princess, and you are even more beautiful than I remember." He smiled fondly at her, passing a grin to her father. "You are a grown woman now...not the little girl frolicking in the shore I remember."

"Yes, time has a way of changing us, Lord Bartrand."

"Dance with me?"

Lothíriel shot a pleading glance toward her father, who merely shrugged. She walked away from the table beside the man, though begrudgingly, and cast another gaze in her father's direction. Though they resolved their differences, the air between them remained tense. Uncomfortable, almost. And she knew, without a doubt in her mind, he was still upset with her. Begrudgingly, she placed her palm atop Bartrand's shoulder and allowed him to lead her about the floor, her face heating as his hand traveled a bit lower than she'd wanted and settled in the middle of her back.

Éomer captured her gaze as he passed with Laneth in his own arms, the two caught up in some quiet conversation. The woman in his arms dropping her head back to laugh at something he must have said. While she had denied him many dances prior to this evening, she pleaded silently that he might rescue her from Bartrand's advances, but when he turned his attention back to Laneth her heart twisted violently in her chest.

"Princess, I must admit I am selfish in my desire to dance with you."

Eyes locked with his, uncertainty filling her gaze. "Whatever do you mean, Lord Bartrand?" She used the voice her father instructed her whenever acting coy in front of a leery man, though he seemed endeared by it. His lips upturned ever so slightly.

"I told you I find you to be a most alluring woman, yes..." He paused, his fingers twitching against her back. "I know you are in line to be a possible bride for Éomer King, but I have spoken to your father...asking for your hand."

Her head whirled. Her stomach dropped. Suddenly, oh so suddenly, she was hyperaware of the way her heart throbbed in her chest. Radiated in her breast, heady and unrelenting. Her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose, her form slipping away from Bartrand's.

"...Such a marriage would be beneficial. I have lands, I have wealth - and though I am no king, I would be able to provide for you beyond what many could..."

 _No._

"I would make you happy. I know I am a bit older than many of your suitors, as your father has informed me, but I believe age is not a question..."

 _No, please no._

"We could live by the shore, you would have a room overlooking the sea at all times. And, in time, I think we could make a life for ourselves. A happy one. I meant what I said, you are such a different lady than the one I knew years ago."

 _That is because I was a child!_

"My wife needs to be strong and capable - and yet someone kind and gentle. I see all those attributes in you, and that is why I am asking if you would consider my proposition."

She staggered backward, chest heaving against the corset which felt all too tight all of a sudden.

"And as I already have a son, we wouldn't need to have children. Unless you wished for them, but there would be no pressure to produce an heir -"

"I will consider your offer. Now, if you will, I am feeling chilled and I would like to retire before I catch ill." With a swift nod of the head, she swirled around in a flurry of skirts and raced toward the exit to the hall, ignoring the stares of many as she passed by.

It was then, when she found herself outside the hustle and bustle of Minas Tirith, that Lothíriel allowed herself to give into her emotion. Her back coasted down the wall, tears rolling down her cheeks. A forearm crossed over her face to prevent anyone from overhearing the sounds of someone unwillingly giving away their freedom.

If not Éomer then Bartrand.

Either option filled her with dread. Each option asphyxiated her, her hands clawing at the imaginary grip fastened around her throat. Heart hammering, she slipped deeper down the halls until she reached the room she was assigned. Once closed behind her, she moved toward the window and curled up against her chair, sobbing until the tears were no more.

Until her throat burned with the echoes of someone who accepted her fate.

-xx-

 **a/n:**

I don't like putting these in chapters, but I just felt the need to reiterate that this story is **AU**. I am involving certain things which are definitely not Tolkien compliant. I hope that's okay. Again, still getting used to posting again on here, and even if no one reads...this is just sort of an adventure of sorts. I want to get better at my writing, and as I'm rusty it's going to be an interesting ride. This first arc will be relatively short, before we dive into the stuff I have planned. So I'm excited to hear what people think.


	3. CHAPTER THREE

**CHAPTER THREE:**

The day before Éomer was meant to choose his bride, Lothíriel somehow managed to disappear from all of court. In fact, the man had not seen her since her strange disappearance the night before, a whirlwind of skirts and anguish from the looks at her face. Curiosity brought him out into the hallways after her, though when he called her name she was no where to be found. Her friend and lady, Branniel, happened to see her before she left and informed him the Princess had taken ill and wished to be left alone to her own devices. Concerned, but unable to express it in any way, he'd returned to the hall and joined his sister's side, listening as she and her husband spoke amidst themselves. His mind remained on the dark haired maiden with her expressive eyes and ever present smirk on her lips.

When the sun peaked through the curtains of his chamber, he found himself prepared for the day by the servants assigned to his room, garbed in a green tunic and a pair of leggings. Simple and unlike his regal attire as of late, though refreshing. The day went as it had for the many which came before it. He found himself presented the ladies for his choosing, took them around the citadel and shared his mind with them, returned them to their father's and then found himself accompanied by another. Still, when he came to Prince Imrahil and requested Princess Lothíriel, the man held no inkling as to where his youngest child could be found.

Which left him in the ever tedious company of Roslynne, her voice high pitched and squealing as they trekked through the various vendors littering the streets, buying things as she saw fit. _"Oh, this is just wonderful! Does it not match my eyes perfectly? Doesn't it?"_ He grimaced and nodded, watching her bounce off like a child with her new jewels around her neck. At his wits end, he'd even asked her if she knew where the Princess was, to which she tilted her head to the side and pouted.

"Why ever would you want to know where she is? She is always so cold and brooding - it's a pity really," she said, more to herself than him, completely ignorant to the insults she spewed toward the woman who wouldn't even hear them.

He almost wished to tell her the cold, brooding woman she spoke of did not exist. For every time he'd been in the presence of Lothíriel, it was her smile which spoke of her heart. The sweet spirit she held, though guarded, had slowly wormed a way inside his mind. And his lack of thinking of anyone _but_ her spoke volumes in and of itself.

As night settled over Minas Tirith, Æthelwulf and Elfhelm suggested they spend some time in a local tavern after the festivities had ended to toast to Éomer's last night as a singular man. By night of the next day, he would have someone named as his betrothed - a thought which instilled fear and even excitement in his bones. Thus they ended up in _Creaky Cove_ , an oddly named tavern by the water, the sounds of crewmen loading their ships in preparation for the next day filtering in through the parted door and melding with that of the string instruments playing from within.

Busty women garbed in gowns even the Rohirrim thought to be scant handed them tankards of ale, whispering sweet nothings into the ear of the younger, Rohir. Æthelwulf, who always bore a constant deeper skin complexion, managed to turn a shade of scarlet upon one ladies inquisition, of which he choked on his words to try to spit out a semblance of a response to.

"And then I tell her father that I intend to take her as my wife if that barbarian king doesn't -"

Éomer's jaw clenched at the words he managed to overhear, turning his head slightly to see what else the man was saying. Elfhelm suggested they leave before things turned sour, but the man shook his head and held his position.

"I even asked her for her hand last night as we were dancing. She is really so... _lovely_ , don't you agree?" The men around him nodded, though their faces betrayed the innocence their friend pretended to harbor. "That sweet face, those gray eyes...the curve of that waist. I have thought many times as she grew up and started to grow into a woman about what she looks like under all of those dresses she puts herself in -"

The man, who Éomer remembered to be Bartrand, paused. A laugh rumbled from his throat. "I am hoping that _man_ doesn't call her name tomorrow, and then I shall announce my betrothal to her. Then, once we are married, I will -"

"I suggest you do not finish your sentence," Éomer said, his face void of all emotion.

Æthelwulf and Elfhelm appeared on either side of him, prepared at the ready to take action if the need presented itself.

Bartrand, clearly drunk, leaned forward and broke out into howling laughter. His men tossed their heads back, joining him. "You cannot persuade me to believe you have not thought about taking that girl and bedding her. I am sure of it, the way she danced with you the first night you were here..." he trailed off, trying to control his wheezing laughter. "The way her legs moved, how that beautiful form of hers fit against yours. She may be a virgin bride to either one of us, but you know there is a fire in her that you just _desire_ to feed and see what comes of it. You know that you...even you, who is seen around court to be the model of a noble man, would love to know what sounds she would make if she were to find herself in your bed and at your mercy."

" _Enough!_ "

Bartrand rose to his feet, his striking face curling at the mouth into a snarl. "You may be a king, but you are not my king."

"Mind your words, Lord Bartrand," Elfhelm barked out, his teeth clenched. "Éomer King, let us not waste our time with these idle threats."

The men disappeared from the tavern, choosing to speak nothing of the words Bartrand spoke toward the Princess. Even Æthelwulf, who'd already shown keen interest in the woman once before, chose to remain silent in the presence of his King. He found himself deeply grieved that Lothíriel had found herself presented with such a loathsome man. A man who her father held in high esteem and trusted with her, when the fear in her eyes the night before now seemed even more understanding.

She had pleaded with him, begged him with her gray eyes to snatch her away from the brute. He had known it, and yet by the time he'd made a move to aid her, she was already gone and hidden in her bedchamber. He hated himself for his foolishness, and marched toward the citadel, inhaling sharply when he saw the woman in question seated on a ledge with her feet dangling over, her face tilted up toward the moon.

Éomer's men greeted her with stiff bows, before leaving their King's side and disappearing into the night. She finally acknowledged him, then, her face swathed in moonlight. "Éomer King, you startled me. I didn't expect to see any familiar faces tonight."

"I will admit I didn't expect to see you either...and _well_. Lady Branniel informed me you had taken ill."

"Come sit," she said, her voice so soft he barely heard them. He dipped his head and climbed up onto the ledge, their shoulders brushing together. "If I tell you something, will you promise to listen and not judge me for it? I would like to think we are friends...of sorts."

"Then you will promise to call me Éomer."

She grinned, her palms fidgeting in her lap. "Lord Bartrand asked for my hand last night, should I not find myself betrothed to you tomorrow. My father seems to think this is a wonderful idea...and though I do not, it is not even just because he offered his hand in the first place.

"For as long as I have known him, he's treated me strangely. He looks at me in a way that is...disconcerting. As if he were inspecting me, and I don't like it. He swears up and down that this would be a good marriage, and that we would be happy, but the way he held me last night spoke otherwise. He is conniving, he already knows he's charming, and he has a bastard son already...so one can assume he is more knowledgable in...other areas..."

The woman shuddered, and he knew it was not from the cold. Tentatively, he tucked the cloak she kept from the day before tighter around her shoulders, watching her hopeful smile warm her pale face. "I don't want to marry him, Éomer, but I might have to."

"I must admit that I don't disagree with you," he began, watching her face shift. Confusion knitted her brows together, her lips turning downward. "I was with two of my men at a tavern just a short while ago, and I overheard Lord Bartrand saying things which were a bit explicit...and directed toward you."

She hummed, a low sound under her breath. "I don't need to hear you say them, I can almost imagine what he might have suggested."

"They are unbecoming and _wrong -"_

"And you cannot speak a word of them to my father. Not before I do, at least," she told him, her fingers jerking outward to clasp his. "Promise me! You see, my father and I do not see eye to eye on the way I handled things toward you on your earlier days here. I admit, I was cold and refused to see you...yet you have quickly become one of the only people here who I can speak freely around."

"I feel the same, Lothíriel."

She sighed, her head dropping slightly from fatigue. He watched as she nuzzled the collar of his cloak and leaned her temple against his shoulder...just slightly, a ghost of a touch which he almost imagined to not be there. Smiling to himself, he glanced upward at the moon and the stars littering the sky around it. He tried to think of where his heart lingered. With the help of his advisors he'd become settled on the idea of marrying Laneth. She was the easier choice...the simpler option. She would be compliant and understanding, prepared to lead by his side, while still allowing him to take the reigns. Yet his fingers reached out for the Princess', a comforting gesture of friendship and no more, and he tried to imagine leaving for Rohan with her as his betrothed instead.

She would accept, she admitted as such. Especially under the guise she might avoid a horrible life with a wretched man. And when he tried to imagine her in Laneth's place, he knew she would be more than adequate - if not more so. A woman of gentle upbringing, someone who knew how to manage a household while he was away. A woman who could hold her own in court, commanding when needed, and yet kind around those she truly loved.

"I am whining about my marriage prospects while you're ruminating over your own. I'm sorry."

He shook his head, glancing down at the woman. Her eyes met his, stormy like the seas. "Let's not talk of it."

She dipped her head, inhaling sharply through her nose. "My dear friend Branniel says those constellations right there are two reluctant lovers. A kind man and a skittish woman. It is said they appear only on nights when the moon is full, as are their hearts. Or so Branniel says...she always has her mind in the clouds, and yet I adore her. She says every month, the reluctant lovers make their way back to one another, giving into passion for a moment in time."

Her eyes slid away from his, her quiet voice carrying away with the slow turn of her head. "That little group over there, are two brothers who grew up hating one another. You see, the one son was loved by all; he was proud, skilled with a blade, and quite a wonderful hunter. His brother - a twin, actually - was born to live in his shadow; he bore none of his brother's skills, though he had a good heart. That is, until the one brother, sick of living in the shadow of another, snuck into his room at night and cut his throat from ear to ear." She paused, her cheeks flushed. "I'm so sorry, this is all so very morbid!"

"I'm actually intrigued by all of this," he admitted, his hand on her forearm. "Hmm...look. _There!_ If you squint, you will see a horse."

She thwacked him on the chest, peals of laughter pouring from her pretty mouth. "Says the King of horses himself!"

"Princess, assailing the King can be counted as treason. Some would call for your pretty little neck."

"Can we arrange that before or after my imminent marriage?" He dropped down from the ledge and extended his arms to her, helping her onto the ground. Once settled, she tugged his cloak up over her shoulders and beamed up at him. "I should really return to my chambers."

"Yes...you are right. May I?"

He extended an arm to her and held his breath while she watched him for a moment, her lips settled into a firm line. A beat later, she linked her arm around his and allowed the other to rest against the curve of the thickest part of his bicep, their forms pressed close enough to one another he practically felt her warmth seep onto his skin. The walk remained quiet, save for the little quips here and there from the Princess, most of them directed at him. The way his hair was sticking out like a wild beast, and she had to shove his hand out of the way to fix it, their eyes meeting for a moment before he cleared his throat and looked away from her.

The halls were dimly lit with torches along the walls, basking the girl beside him in an orange glow. She looked beautiful, even in her state of distress. Her eyes still reddened and puffy from the tears he was certain she'd shed, despite her not saying much of _what_ she had been doing while she locked herself away for most of the day in her bed chamber. Paired with her hair, which usually was pinned back and braided away from her face, now freed from all its bindings and resting against her lower back, while her thick waves of dark hair framed her face.

 _Laneth. Your advisors wish for you to marry Laneth._

Still, he felt his stomach churn at the thought of it.

"This is my bedchamber," she whispered at last, stopping in front of the doorway. "I must thank you again. You always seem to appear when I least expect it, and I am finding myself enjoying your company."

"Lothíriel...about tomorrow -"

"'Riel, is that you?" Amrothos yawned, appearing by a doorway further down the hall. "Éomer King? If you are being explicit with my sister, I will have you know you are still in Gondor, and I am certain even your relationship with Elessar may not protect you from imminent -"

" _Amrothos!_ "

"Sister mine, I thought you were sick...Branniel told me you were sick," he said, walking closer to the pair, carding his fingers through his mussy hair.

"I was - _am_ , but I needed fresh air and while I was looking up at the stars Éomer happened to pass by. He was simply returning me to my bedchamber safely." She smiled sweetly, her arm still interlocked with Éomer's, much to his amusement.

"Thank you for that then, brother. Now I suggest _you_ \- " He pointed toward his little sister, then her door. "Get in there and get some rest. Tomorrow is a long day, and if you're ill, you should at least be playing the part."

"Goodnight, Éomer. Thank you...again."

"Think nothing of it," he told her, his arm finally dropping from her own. "Goodnight."

She slipped behind the door, leaving the two men standing there in uncomfortable silence. Amrothos, whom he'd gotten to know during the war and befriended swiftly, whirled on him, his generally joyful face contorted into seriousness.

"Do not play with my sister's heart."

"I have done nothing; she regards me as a friend and no more, I can assure you that."

Amrothos nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer. Though disappointment flashed in his gaze, the origin unknown to Éomer. He left a moment later, leaving the King staring at the bedchamber door of a lady, considering the choice he had to make in less than a day.

 _Béma, help me._

-xx-

Lothíriel found herself sitting in her father's study awaiting his arrival, her fingers on one hand nervously tapping against a piece of parchment beneath her fingertips, the other working on a letter she meant to give to him. Broad strokes of her quill against the sheet formed loopy cursive, words spilling from her mind swifter than she'd ever written before. Words begging for her father's consideration, for consideration of her future, for consideration of the love he bore for her.

She spoke of what Éomer informed her, though she did not mention where the information had come from. How Lord Bartrand thought of her in the most carnal manner, and portrayed his true colors while intoxicated. A man who did not respect her, and instead thought of her as a prize. A virginal bride he could bring to ruinous end. She shivered at the thought and marred the parchment with a heavy strike of her ink against the page, heart hammering in her chest.

The sound of someone opening the door to the room met her ears, and she breathed a deep sigh when her father's familiar voice met her ears. She stood before him and dipped into a curtsy, extending the letter before her with the words she struggled to say written down before him. Her heart opened and laid out bare, prepared for his judgement to take place.

"What is the meaning of this, sweetheart?" he asked, sitting down across from her and leaning back against his chair. Very quickly his hand came to cover his mouth, his eyes gliding over the page. As he finished, he rubbed his forehead and settled the parchment down on the desk, his eyes meeting hers. "Before this past week, you have known and accepted what is expected of you as a Princess. The one _true_ Princess of Gondor -"

"Father, I _will not_ marry Lord Bartrand even if Éomer King does not ask for my hand in marriage." The girl nearly shrieked the words, parchment skittering across the floor in his startled surprise. "He is not the man you claim him to be, and I cannot allow myself to be a pawn in his lascivious game."

"You don't wish to marry anyone, how can I be sure you're not simply making up stories again in your mind? Did Branniel put you up to this? Her fantasies?" He began clambering from his seat, distress written plain as day across his features.

"No, _no!_ Branniel put me up to nothing, I have my own mind. I wish I had made up those stories! Lord Bartrand is a lecherous man, he spoke terrible things of me!"

"It does not seem in his nature," he told her, staring straight into her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, hurt pooling in her chest. "And as of late, you acting like a foolish little thing _is._ It is already decided, you will marry Éomer King, or you will marry Lord Bartrand. I will not have you acting like an impulsive child simply because you have qualms with accepting your duty. Your brothers have accepted theirs! Your brother Elphir knows first hand! He approached me for Gerehild's hand, or do you forget? I forbade their union! Whether you like it or not, we need to secure our line and this is the best way we can do it. Through Rohan preferably, but nevertheless."

"Impulsive?" She dropped down into the chair across from him, her hands curled around the arms of her seat so tight her knuckles turned white in protest.

"This whole week you have been in a state of constant distress. One moment you are happy, and the next you are defying my wishes without taking into consideration how I might feel about this," he said, clearing his throat.

"How you feel? Father, what about how _I_ feel? You are not the one giving away your freedom, your heart, your _body_ \- I am. You don't know what this feels like for me...like a horse to be sold to the highest bidder, a prized possession someone can own. I know I have been not the best daughter to you this week, but know I have only been this way because I am truly scared."

"You don't think I realize that, sweetheart?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't, because if you truly loved me and accepted me as your own you would not be doing this. You would believe my word because I am your daughter; I am your flesh and blood, and I am telling you Lord Bartrand is not the man he pretends he is. And if you force me to marry that man...I shall never speak to you again!"

He paused, as if considering her words. She held her breath in expectancy, her fingers continuing to drum against the arms of her chair, feet tapping against the ground. But when he opened his mouth again, she felt her stomach plummet deeper, her heart twisting painfully in her chest. He would have no other words on the subject, and forbade her to bring it up again, casting her words down as though she were creating a fantasy in her mind. Tears welled up in her eyes immediately, the frantic shake of her head, paired with the disbelief pumping through her veins, blinding her senses. He didn't believe her, he didn't see things the way she knew to be truth.

Lord Bartrand, in his mind, was a wonderful man. A most reputable Lord, and the second best option for her marriage prospects. If not one, then the other, and try as she might to see it as an option, she felt herself growing further and further in on herself like a child would when scared. With wobbly legs, she made her way out of her father's study, her unshed tears blurring her vision. She would not let him entice her to change her ways; she was a free spirited woman, a woman of noble breeding, a woman who knew herself and would not allow _anyone_ to change her.

He could have her married off, but he could not have her bridle her ways. Mind made up, she trekked down the halls, wiping her eyes with the palms of her hand and tilting her head up like the proud woman she was. Roslynne and Laneth passed by as she went, deep in conversation, giggling over something more than likely trivial, and paused at the sight of the Princess with red-rimmed eyes. Laneth, whose arm was intertwined with Roslynne, halted in her steps, her words dying on parted lips.

"Princess Lothíriel, does something ail you?" she asked, the worry in her voice evident.

"I am fine, Lady Laneth," she said, dropping into a cursty. Jaw hardened, she met Roslynne's expectant gaze and dipped her head. "Lady Roslynne."

She left them, then, smiling inwardly to herself. Still smiling even as Roslynne hissed " _What a strange woman,"_ under her breath. She continued smiling even as Branniel tugged her into her bedchamber and nearly screamed at her, aghast over the way the Princess looked on that day of all days.

"You are to be presented one last time before, Éomer King, 'Riel, and you look like one of the Rohirrim."

"Maybe that is a good thing," Lothíriel muttered, wincing as Branniel tugged at a knot in her hair. "If I am to marry the King, I will have to adopt their lifestyle. I will become one of them; I will be expected to learn their language, learn their culture...be a Queen to people I do not know. Why not begin now?"

Branniel knocked the back of her friend's head, a sad smile in place. "You are acting as if you are preparing yourself for the end of your life. I do not like it!"

"I am trying to accept what I have been denying for the better part of my life. But promise me something, Branniel?" She turned to look into her friend's eyes, her hand stilling the one which was brushing through her tangled hair.

Branniel held the brush aloft, cupping Lothíriel's hand in her own. "Anything, 'Riel."

"If Éomer speaks my name tonight, will you promise to never me? We will be going somewhere we don't know, and I will need you by my side, or I'll surely lose my mind. If my Father insists on locking me in shackles, then I wish to have my dearest friend with me."

Branniel dropped the brush onto the bed beside her. "I would never leave you! You silly girl, you are a sister to me. There is nothing left for me in Gondor if you are gone."

Very suddenly, Lothíriel felt herself being tugged against her friend's chest. She stilled in her arms for a moment, before returning the gesture and burying her face in Branniel's shoulder. Even if she lost everything, she would still have her friend, and she knew their friendship ran deeper than most. Sisters, Branniel had said, a notion which Lothíriel had long ago accepted. Even before Branniel's father died and she came to live with her family, even before her mother died at a young age. It always was, and always would be, and even as she felt the ground opening up beneath her, there was at least _something_ constant which she could cling to.

"Now let's make you the envy of all tonight," Branniel said, wiping her own eyes with her palms. "If the King hasn't chosen you as his bride, there is hope yet."

"Better him than Lord Bartrand, I suppose."

" _Anyone_ is better than Lord Bartrand. He is a most lascivious man! I saw the way he looked at you last night as you danced; he thinks of you as no more than a prize to be won, and I will not have it. I will _help you_ run away if he ends up as your option for marriage."

Both girls dissolved into howling laughter.

-xx-

Éomer spent the last few hours as an unattached man beside his sister and her husband, listening to them talk of the past few months they've had together since their wedding, their faces bright with the prospect of their unborn child making its way into the world in the coming months. Healers claimed Éowyn conceived early into their marriage, something which neither had expected to happen so soon. And while at first not all too enthused with the idea of adding a new child into their relationship - mostly from Éowyn - they settled into their roles as parents before long.

Éomer's face burned from the smile which never left his face. Seeing his sister so happy and in love gave him hope for his own future. Maybe there was happiness to be had in the midst of all the chaos? Just maybe he might find himself in a situation where he could give and receive love from a woman who thought of him fondly.

Faramir announced his need to tend to some business, to which Éowyn kissed him goodbye and giggled at something he murmured low enough to her ear the king could not over hear. But what confused him more was the honest _giggle_ he heard come from his sister. He shook his head and glanced down at his palms, bidding his brother-in-law farewell. It was then Éowyn perched herself on the arm of the chair he sat in, gently rubbing the bowl of her belly, worry etched into the lines of her usually serene face.

"What is it?" she asked, her hand resting against his broad shoulder.

"I had chosen my bride. I _chose_ Laneth; or rather, my councilors did. She is beautiful and kind and loving..."

"But she is not meant for Rohan, Éomer," Éowyn said, voicing what his heart already knew to be true. "As lovely as she is, you would be doing her a great injustice if you chose her. Even if she did not realize it now, because it is easy to see she is smitten with you, you are saving her from a life of unhappiness."

He nodded, thankful that she understood when many others did not. "Still, that does not make today any less difficult."

"It doesn't have to be, brother. So long as you do not choose Roslynne, the world will continue." Éowyn laughed to herself, saying, "Should you choose her, I will lose all hope for you yet -"

The woman paused mid sentence, her hand moving to curl over the swell of her abdomen. Concerned, Éomer turned to her, his hands around her forearms in an instant. She shook her head and laughed again, a slow, uneasy laugh which did nothing to help the erratic beat of his heart at the thought of something being wrong with his sister or the life growing inside her. When she met his gaze, however, excitement flashed in her eyes and she shook her head. Before the questions whirling around in his head could be voiced, she snatched his hand and pressed it against the bottom of the swell, waiting for a moment in silence.

"I...what am I waiting for...?"

"The babe _moved!_ I felt it!" She cried out in glee, pressing his palm harder down against the fabric of her gown. "Usually it feels like little hummingbird wings on the inside, but that was the first time I could really feel it from the outside. He or she must love you already."

He waited for some time in nervous expectation before the babe stirred, causing a ripple in the skin beneath his palm. "That is unlike anything I've ever felt before. It's incredible."

"And you will get to know this joy some day soon," she whispered.

The thought of a woman swelling with his child brought with it a sense of fear. A woman whom he already knew and was no doubt wandering around Minas Tirith going about her day without a care in the world. To think that day was approaching faster than he ever imagined chilled his heart, stomach growing tight with nerves. He still had a wedding to get through...and a peculiar notion of consummation with a woman who he knew for all of seven days before parting until the ceremony. An heir was a long way off, this he knew, though the thought still brought a sense of hope to him. Hope for his people, hope for a future - hope for a ray of sunshine when for so long his world was filled with darkness, death and war.

"You're faraway in your mind again."

Ever since she had fallen on that field, her body broken and so very light and cold as death in his arms, he thanked Béma endlessly for the life which was spared that fateful day. To think of life without his dear sister was akin to a hot knife piercing his heart. Unimaginable and unthinkable. Even now, being with her in her presence felt like a dream he might soon wake up from. A beautiful wisp of a dream gripping him, before sliding through his parted fingers like sand. And yet the feel of his sister's skin against his own brought him back to reality with her, her sad eyes locked on his face.

"Don't go where I cannot follow, Éomer."

"I'm sorry..." He squeezed her palm. "Seeing you happy has made me happier than anything else in this world."

Her eyes softened then, fresh tears forming on her lower lashes. "I am all out of sorts these days with the babe, that is why I am crying. Don't think I have gone soft! Your wife shall be the same some day while she is with child...it happens to us all."

"I would not think you had gone soft. You'll be happy to know many still call you Lady of the Shield-arm instead of the White Lady of Ithilien."

The watery smile she gave him warmed his heart, and the happy sob of joy which spilled from her mouth - though never spoken of again - was like music to his ears.

-xx-

Lothíriel found herself in the courtyard in the hour before Éomer King chose his wife before all of Gondor. While mostly emptied due to excitement, some lingered near, though most preferred to keep distance from the Princess of Dol Amroth who they'd been told had a heart of ice and a face of stone. She even caught the terrified gaze of a young boy, no more than one and ten, watching her as if she might attack him. A though which filled her with mirth, simply because the lack of truth held behind it.

Roslynne, with her sharp tongue and jealous heart, likely had told all of court how the Princess had treated her and the king. A savage amongst her own people - a disgrace to her Father's great name. Things she knew those who _truly_ loved her would deny and disprove to those who preferred the company of the likes of Roslynne. By now, most of the other ladies eligible for an alliance with Rohan's King, disliked the Princess. Whenever near their presence, they tolerated her, but the sour looks upon their face whenever she turned away for even a moment told her otherwise.

She did not pay them any mind.

Her only thoughts were on returning home to the shores of Balfalas, her heart longing for the waves. She promised once she stepped onto the sand she would jump into the waves, regardless of her father's protests. There was nothing she wished for more than the scent of salt water and the fresh air - the gentle call of gulls as they soared overhead. The push and pull of the water as it danced along the sand.

Standing there in the courtyard, in a gown of deep maroon which made her look like someone she was not, she could almost imagine the waves licking at her ankle. Could almost feel the caress of the water along her skin. Her eyes closed, head upturned toward the sky, arms outstretched. She twirled around once, then twice, and laughed at the sight behind her eyelids of her home calling to her sweetly.

"Sister."

The girl paused and spun on the heel one last time until she stood before her eldest brother, his dark eyes still piercing even in the moonlight. Startled, she stumbled as she dropped into a curtsy, holding an arm aloft to steady herself. Elphir grabbed her arm, albeit roughly, and dragged her away from the courtyard, ignoring the grumbled protests which spilled from her lips, before tossing her onto a stone bench and glowering hard at her for what seemed like days.

"Father might have gone easy on you, but I will not tolerate it any longer! You are a Princess of Dol Amroth...you are the one _true_ Princess of Gondor by blood. You _should_ be the Queen of Rohan if Éomer King has willed it. That man is a true brother to me, even if not by blood - and the way you have presented yourself before him is maddening!" Elphir paused for a moment, before sighing and sitting down beside the girl. "Our brothers and I, while we were fighting in the war and uncertain if we would ever see you again, spoke of you greatly. Of the woman we loved so deeply - a woman of merit and ferocity, but _tamed_ ferocity. A woman who _loves_ with her whole heart and is kind to every one she meets; a woman who tended to the hurt and broken in the Houses of Healing. That is the woman I love...the _sister_ I love."

She went to open her mouth, but he silenced her with the curt wave of a hand. "I am not finished. Father loves you so deeply, and I know you don't always see it but it is the truth. When Mother died, he was heartbroken yes; you looked so much like her, it is uncanny. But that does not mean he ever resented you or forced this onto you out of spite. Lothíriel, he loves you. He wants you to be safe and cared for long after he leaves this world because you are precious to him. He speaks of you as if you are his greatest treasure in life, and I truly think you are exactly that to him."

Her heart ached at her brother's words, the truth to them and the weight they carried. _And I have been so incorrigible..._

"He never wants you to have need for anything, so he has made it his mission to give you the best he can. And that, as a father to us, includes our marriages. I know it is hard to understand, and I have been hurt by his unwillingness to let us settle for anything less than what is best for us. But now I have grown to love my wife, and I know it seems so terrifying now," he said, cupping her jaw with his fingers. She inhaled sharply, tears burning in her eyes. "but it _will_ be okay. Better than okay, because at the end of the day life is what you make of it, dear heart. Just know that he cares for you greatly and he will do anything for you. He would lay down his life for you if it meant you would be safe."

"And I have been so hard on him," she whispered, burying her face into Elphir's shoulder. At the first heaving sob which wracked her form he tugged her closer, his arm circling around the small of her back. "Oh, Sweet Elbereth, I have been so terrible to him. I screamed at him this morning and threatened to never speak to him again if he made me marry Lord Bartrand."

"There is still time before you are presented before the hall one last time. I will take you to him if you wish, and I will even stay while you make amends with him."

She nodded against his chest and took his arm, walking toward the hall with him. Once announced, they slipped inside in search of their Father, her brother's other hand reaching over to give her a comforting squeeze.

"You look beautiful, and you have no need to worry for anything. Everything will be as it was meant to be, remember that."

"Thank you, Elphir," she murmured, a soft smile against her lips.

They found their father seated beside Echirion and Amrothos, deep in a conversation about preparations to return back home. Which carriages they intended to pack, how many horses were needed, and the like. Branniel, sitting beside Amrothos, waved as she approached, a happy blush on her cheeks. Lothíriel shot a dirty look in Amrothos' direction, knowing full well he must have said something inappropriate to her friend, and asked for permission to speak to her father.

"Yes, love..." he said at last, leading her to the same hallway they had fought in a week prior. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"I've been horrible to you, and I am so sorry it took me this long to realize." She crumpled once more, face hiding behind her palms. "You only want what is best for me and I've been too selfish to acknowledge that. I don't like it, but your intentions have only been true while mine have been false.

"Think nothing of it," he said, folding his daughter into his arms. "Now, no more crying. You are to be presented before Éomer King one last time before he chooses his bride. And remember, sweetling, if he is to choose you hold your head up high and _smile._ After that moment, everyone will be judging whoever he has chosen. You must recognize this."

"Brilliant, anything else I should be aware of?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

"Lord Bartrand will want to step in if you are not chosen. I know you dislike the man, and I promise to take your words into consideration, but he has his mind set." Her father pulled her back toward the hall, her breath coming in short puffs as she tried to compose herself. "Chin up, sweetling, you are the most beautiful woman in the room."

"You know that is not true, Arwen Queen is absolutely _ethereal_."

"She is quite lovely, but I would say I am a bit inclined to pick you over her," he said, leaning down to kiss the side of her head. "Now, go. Mingle with the nobles, make your niceties, and wish the other ladies happiness. Regardless of what happens, in a few days time we will be returning home."

"How wonderful that sounds."

She exhaled her fears and tilted her head upward, the vision of the proud Princess she was thought to be. The prim and proper vision of stone, settled in place and unwavering. A few more hours and she would be able to rest easy knowing that at the end of the day she would be returning to her beloved home where she could have peace of mind - even if for only a little while.

Smile settled in place, she made her way about the room, conversing with the nobility as her father ordered her. The room was absolutely stunning. Draped in gold and maroon, emblems of the Rohirrim which were preparing to return to their own lands, this time with a Queen for their King. Couples swirled around in the middle of the room, their faces bent low, whispers of affection on their lips. Others laughed gaily over their goblets of wine, their faces bright with the spirits in their drink, and the joy of the celebration. Éomer was seated beside his dear friend, Aragorn, absolutely jovial and enthralled by their conversation.

Lothíriel snuck a glance in his way, watching as his eyes shifted in her direction, holding her gaze for a moment. The side of her lip curled upward into a smirk, which was enough for the man to request leave from the table and make his way over to the Princess. Heart hammering, she crossed the room and joined him.

"You didn't have to leave, you looked to be enjoying yourself," she said, laughing into her goblet as she sipped her drink.

"But you, my lady, looked lonely and people would begin to talk."

"They're talking now, I can assure you," she said, gesturing with the nod of her head to the faces which had turned their way. "They might get the idea that we actually tolerate one another."

"How tragic." He waved at their onlookers, some of the ladies blushing and covering their faces with their hands. "If only they knew you have threatened my well being more times than I can count on one hand."

"You can carry out my execution in front of court. I am sure some would even praise you if you removed my head." Namely the woman who was shooting them glares from across the room, hunched low in what looked to be conspiratorial conversation with the ever innocent Laneth.

"Such a shame, too, because it is a beautiful head."

Her form stiffened at his words, body running cold. "My lord, I believe that is the first time you have ever complimented me."

If he had any qualms with that, he said nothing of it. Instead, he grabbed her hand and placed her goblet down on the table. _Don't let him rule you, Lothíriel._ Still, it did nothing to ease her nerves as he led her toward the middle of the room, gathering her hand in his own. How scandalous that he would choose the Princess as his first dance of the night? Especially on a night such as this where he was meant to dance with most of the eligible ladies present, despite his tendency to lean toward a select few of them. Again, the song morphed into something with a sensual beat. Something which turned her blood hot like coals, her form immediately shifting to meld into the music as if it were part of her. Instinct, she supposed, as she moved her silhouette in a way which made Roslynne turn red in fury.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Éomer."

He smiled down at her as they moved about the room, his palm against her side burning through the thick fabric of her gown. "You are fooling many then, because it seems like you know exactly what you are doing."

They continued as such, the plucking of the string instruments in tempo with her heartbeat. Her feet worked in tandem, him leading her through the parts of the dance she was a little more uncomfortable with. His gentle touches and smiles helped her to loosen up, the callouses on his hand in hers firm as he led her forward and backward when needed.

"Do you trust me?" he breathed out, bent low toward her face.

"Do you wish for me to lie?"

He chuckled, a deep, genuine sound. "Humor me, Lothíriel."

"Then yes," she whispered, nearly gasping as he clutched her back and dipped her backward as the song came to a crescendo and ended.

A moment later he whipped her forward again, the sudden jostle sending her flush against his chest, faces a hairsbreadth away. Lips close enough were he to lean forward even the slightest they might have a different acquaintance than the one they already established. This one of a more romantic nature. Realizing this, she jumped backward and curtsied before him, brushing an errant curl away from her face.

"Thank you, my lord."

And then she was gone in a flurry of skirts, making a beeline for Branniel who looked overwhelmed by her excitement. Amrothos stood beside her, patting her on the back and pointing out the flaming blush on her cheeks after her _romantic_ twirl around the dance floor with the king.

"You were amazing, 'Riel. Everyone had their eyes on you," Branniel cried out, practically jumping out of her skin.

"Now they are looking at Éomer and Roslynne. It meant _nothing,_ I assure you."

As she pointed out, the king now danced with Roslynne, though part of her warmed at the way he looked like he wished for the girl to be anywhere but within the cage of his arms.

"Since when are you calling him Éomer, sister?" Amrothos asked, shooting a wink in Branniel's way.

"Peculiar," Branniel agreed, coiling her arm with Amrothos'.

Lothíriel squared her jaw, shrugging. "We decided we if we are to endure this nightmare, we would be better of enduring it as friends."

" _Very_ peculiar indeed, Branniel." Amrothos nudged the girl's shoulder, the two grinning at one another. "Now, if you don't mind us, we would like to enjoy the festivities."

Lothíriel, left to her own devices, dropped down onto the chair in front of her, watching Éomer dance with Roslynne. Though he looked unamused by the whole ordeal, she prided him for keeping up appearances and trying to be enthralled as she spoke of whatever whims on her mind this night. The night passed as uneventfully as any other, people stopping to talk to her about her beauty or men requesting her to dance with them. Each more nerving than the rest.

She wanted no more than to slip away to her bedchamber and sleep the rest of the night away. And yet, as Éomer finished his final dance of the night with Laneth, her face positively _glowing_ as she looked up at him as if he were the only man in the world...Lothíriel felt herself grow nervous. He was settled in his choice of Laneth, was he not? She was the best choice, the perfect option. And as much as she disliked Lord Bartrand, her friendship with the new king instilled a hope for him. She wanted him to have a happy life, he deserved joy, no matter how small.

Still, she found herself standing and walking up to her father's side, her fingers curling in his like she used to when she were a little scrap of a girl. Only now, she was grown and prepared to possibly step into a realm of life she never thought she would venture so soon. Éomer began with a hearty thanks for all the love he had been shown during his stay and the accommodations which were made for him.

"My reasons for coming were unconventional, and the stipulations a bit...hasty, but I have come to a decision."

The room all seemed to inhale at once and hold their breath.

"I choose Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to be my wife. Do you take me to be your husband?"

Even though it were an offer, not a demand, the shackle had already been locked around her ankle. How could she deny the man when her father looked at her like he were the most happy of all men in Gondor? How could she deny her brothers, the way their eyes collectively widened around the room in excitement at the prospect of calling Éomer 'brother' in blood, instead of friendship? She knew Gondor needed a solid alliance with Rohan, and the good it would bring to both parties. She closed her eyes, a single tear rolling down her cheek before her father brushed it away with the palm of his hand. She clutched his hand tighter as he pushed her forward a bit, her last moments of freedom skittering into the wind. Stormy grey eyes opened once more, and she forced herself to hold Éomer's gaze, the hopeful grin on his face the final knife in her chest.

"Yes, I will marry you, Éomer King."

Then the room erupted, the sound of clapping deafening on her ears.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

**CHAPTER FOUR**

-xx-

The eve of her wedding itself proved to be a most extravagant affair, though she expected no less from Éomer. From the procession as she made her way through the seas of endless people waiting to catch sight of their new Queen atop her new horse gifted to her by her betrothed himself - a mare the color of a deer pelt - to the halls littered with gold as she made her way toward the hall where her vows were to be shared. Her father merely balked at each sight, happy with the hope his daughter might find a good life here yet.

Amrothos, ever steadfast beside her, took in the sights around him with lesser care. He never strayed far from her, always there to lend a hand when her heart felt as though it may fail her. Her other brothers were adjoined by their wives and children, still young yet and unaware of what was happening later in the evening. Branniel lingered on behind, mouth agape at the Golden Hall.

Éomer was no less of a gentleman than he had ever been throughout the whole ordeal. He tended to his soon to be bride's side, asking if she needed any accommodations to make the day easier. His thumb had even brushed the back of her hand more times than she would have liked to count, and try as she might to deny the shudder which rippled through her form at his every gesture, she couldn't deny that him being there eased her nerves.

As the group slipped away to settle in their prospective chambers during the remainder of their stay, Lothíriel lingered behind with the King, her arm curled in his. If she moved even the slightest bit their bodies bumped against one another, and it took her all her strength to find the breath which kept leaving her lungs. He led her to a chamber at the end of a secluded hall, and she thought for a moment what his intentions were, mentally cursing herself for thinking it was anything impure or which would compromise her virtue.

Surely he would be able to keep himself satiated for just hours more, though the idea failed to help unknot her nerves in the slightest. Instead, she paused in front of the door and looked down at her feet, cheeks colored a bright scarlet even the ripest of tomatoes would be envious of. Noting this, he cupped the base of her chin and tilted her head up to look at her. The smile on his face made her shoulders relax, and at the first chuckle which spilled from his lips she released a deep breath she wasn't even aware she'd been holding in.

"Do you still think so little of me that you would imagine I might ravish you here against this door?" he mused, laughing louder at the horrified shriek which left her lips.

"You scandalize me, my Lord." She shoved him lightly, hand over the racing heart thrumming against her breast. "The idea may have crossed my mind, but I tried to push it away."

"Well, I can assure you that was never my intention. This is actually your chamber. It was cluttered with unneeded things with no further use, and I think it might have once been intended as a nursery, but I have had it emptied and suited to your liking."

"So you do not wish for us to share a chamber?"

He shook his head. "I understand it is not custom typically shared in Gondor as it is here, your cousin Faramir told me as much. Therefore, I thought you might prefer to have your own room to go to...though I would hope that maybe one day you would not look at me as your jailer."

Her heart swelled at the thought of her betrothed thinking of her preference. Many a men would not think twice about keeping their wife abed with them, and for him to create a room separate from his where she could seek comfort in made her think twice about the whole arrangement. There were worser options for a husband, and maybe she had not given him credit where he was owed.

Soon after bidding him farewell until the dinner he would be hosting in celebration of his impending nuptials, a knock beckoned from the faraway door. Lothíriel, deep into trying on gowns which had been newly made for her, scrambled to answer it, the gown she held in her hands pressed against her chest to keep her modesty intact. Upon realizing it was none other than Lady Éowyn and her sweet new boy with fair hair, she dropped into a curtsy and welcomed her inside.

"I am sorry for my state of undress. I was a bit overwhelmed with all of...this."

Éowyn nodded, understanding, and rocked the babe in her arms. "My brother wanted to make sure you'd be happy here. He understands how much of a transition this will be, and he's done everything in his power to ensure you are content."

"I can see that." She eyed the large trunk at the base of her bed, still not even filled with her own gowns from home, and sank onto her bed with a sigh. "It is becoming harder and harder for me to act indifferently toward all of this."

"Can I be frank with you, as you are yet to be my sister?"

Lothíriel nodded, bracing herself.

"Don't you feel that you are making things harder on yourself by trying so hard to act like you dislike my brother?"

She frowned. "It's not that I dislike him!" Her hastiness shocked her, and she bit her lip to continue, amending, "I just did not see my life playing out like this, even though I was raised knowing that this could very well happen. Princesses are meant to marry highborn men, and it happened that Éomer became King as he had and...well, you know the rest."

"He cares very much for you," she admitted, bouncing the babe again. "I know it is not my place to speak of his heart and his feelings, but he truly does."

"I see that now," Lothíriel said, more to herself than the woman sitting across from her in a wooden rocking chair.

"I really came here, however, to ask how you are feeling about tomorrow. I know you lost your mother very young, as did I, and I wish I would have had her on the day of my wedding to talk to about what happens after you two leave the hall."

She did not need to elaborate, for Lothíriel knew what exactly she spoke of. The one thing she tried to keep pushed in the darkest corner of her mind, never to be thought of until the moment creeped up upon her. Her role, essentially, as queen was to produce an heir to the throne; she understood this, she'd had enough people remind her throughout the months she spent separated from Éomer and deep in classes which would have hopefully helped her integrate into a Rohir herself. The thought of how a child would take root in her made her shudder, even despite the way her heart ached with longing as she looked upon Éowyn's fair haired babe.

"I am dreading it. I have heard it can be...unpleasant."

Ladies - the looser ones with little care for virtue, at least - spoke of pain. And discomfort. Not only that, but the thought of being laid bare before a man she hardly knew made a shudder ripple down her spine. As if she were some sort of prize waiting to be received.

"It might be the first few times -"

Lothíriel groaned out loud, clapping her hand over her mouth in embarrassment upon realizing exactly how vocal she had been. "Forgive me."

"As I was saying, it might be unpleasant the first few times."

She tried once more, grimacing as if thinking of the now far off memory of her own wedding night. But then she smiled, and it made Lothíriel uncomfortable to think of the insinuation behind fond memories of her laying with her dear cousin.

"But my brother will be kind," she told her, cupping her hand. "And you might soon find yourself enjoying that part of your relationship."

She nodded, though she doubted that much. Her brother, Elphir had a similar conversation with his sister a fortnight ago, his words much crasser than Éowyns, however.

 _"You don't need to be in love with your husband in order to produce an heir."_

 _Lothíriel frowned at the dark route their conversation had taken. "I do understand the art of making an heir, dear brother."_

 _"Just to clarify, in the early months of my marriage we held little to nothing in common. The bedchamber was the one place we shared equal liking for, however," he admitted, patting his sister on the shoulder. "Love came after...with time."_

 _"So you are suggesting I allow my husband to do what he will with me and pretend I have no care in the world of it?"_

 _He shook his head. "No, I am just saying that there is pleasure to be found in the bedchamber, even if the rest of your marriage is cold."_

"Now, now. Enough of you looking as if you are being buried tomorrow at your funeral. There is a feast in honor of the new bride to be, and as I see it you are not yet ready."

Éowyn gestured to the riding clothes the Princess still had on, smiling ruefully. She lifted herself back onto her feet and plopped Rhyllan into her unknowing lap, smirking as Lothíriel scrambled to keep the baby aloft in front of her, uncertain as to whether she should tuck him close or keep him at a distance.

"Cradle his head."

She reached for the dark haired woman's hand and placed it around the back of her son's curly patch of hair at the nape of his neck. The babe squirmed for a moment, but settled soon after into what looked to either be a happy smile or the face of a child who had soiled his clout. Irregardless, the Princess felt her chest tighten at the sight, picturing a sweet boy of her own. Would he look like her and carry all the Gondorian traits, or would he resemble his striking father - all fair of hair and hard angles, but someone who looked crafted to perfection?

"I will give you a moment and fetch the servants."

Lothíriel hardly heard the women, and instead smiled down at the little babe swathed in furs.

"Do not be quick to grow up. Stay like this for as long as you can, sweetling."

-xx-

Éomer found his bride to be standing before the Golden Hall, hand pressed over her heart, her chest heaving as though she had ran long and hard for many miles. Below people were gathered in the hall, mingling over their meals and drinking fine drink, in celebration of the woman standing before him. She tilted her head upward at his arrival, watching with a frown as she crossed the distance between the two and cupped his hands.

Her form trembled against his, and part of him wished to take her away from the hall and keep her safe from whatever was troubling her. But he knew their appearance was vital, and that if they were to disappear not only would it look as though they were hiding a more _intimate_ relationship, but would dampen the already mixed thoughts on the foreign bride.

"Forgive me, my Lord. I was having a moment, but it is all right now."

 _Propriety be damned,_ he thought, at her lie to keep him happy, and instead brushed an errant curl away from her face. "There is nothing to fear. However, if you need a moment we could take a walk around the gardens. I can alert a guard that you were not feeling well and needed fresh air."

"I would like that..."

Together the two slipped into the large expanse of gardens around the Golden Hall. Though they were not blooming with life, as snow littered the ground instead, there was still beauty to be found in the small pond nestled in the distance, and the large skeletons of what were probably some sort of green, leafy wall of plants. Her hand interlocked with her betrothed, the girl stepped closer to the pond and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through the nose. A chaperone in the form of her admirer, Æthelwulf stood in the distance, seemingly hidden by the trunk of a proud tree. Éomer requested he stay as far away as possible within the expectations of both court and Prince Imrahil's requests. His daughter was to be kept under watch at all times for the sake of her virtue, and so close to their wedding he would _not_ make an enemy of his future father by law.

"I know nothing about you, Éomer." He barely heard her, for her voice was no more than a whisper. And yet her words chilled his spine, a hard line forming across his lips. Her head upturned, a gentle smile broadening her pretty face, and her fingers tapped along the back of his hand in a tune unknown. "You look as if I have told you your favorite horse was stolen."

"If my favorite horse had been stolen, the man at fault would be worried, not I."

She smirked at that, nodding. "But truly, I know nothing about you, and I am to be your wife."

"I enjoy taking walks in the garden - as you can see." He gestured to their surroundings, watching her head tilt to the side. "I have a strange liking for pie, so you can always expect it as the kitchen has made it their purpose to fatten up their king."

She laughed.

"I lost my parents young, this you know. And therefore, I did not grieve them as one might grieve a parent they have known all their life. But when I thought I lost Éowyn, I lost my head and almost lost my own life."

He was certain she knew. She had heard the stories, no doubt. If not from other nobles, from her brothers. They had seen it first hand - _witnessed_ the way he reacted. A hand reached out once more to curl around his own, her fingers cold in the winter night. He turned to look at her and found her eyes filled with sadness and another emotion he could not yet put a name to. Compassion. Care. Pity.

"I am glad that you did not," she said, squeezing his palm.

His furrowed brows softened at her words. "Truly?"

"We are friends first, or did you forget that?" she asked, grinning up at him. "I _do_ care about you."

His chest warmed from the inside out. "And I you, my lady."

"I am grateful you shared your heart with me," she said, lowly, pulling away from his grasp and slipping behind a nearby tree.

He didn't follow her, and instead watched the back of her form, trying to ignore the fact that his bride to be was a vision of beauty. All had noticed, and many commented on it. Some more suggestive than others. A few had even clapped him on the back upon initial meetings with the Princess, reminding him of how blessed of a man he was. She donned a long green gown, embellished around the collar with gold and rubies. Around the waist was another band of gold, drawing in her already slender form and highlighting the fact that though she was young, a woman she was.

The Princess, seemingly noticing his mind had wandered, caught him at the right moment with a snowball to the chest. His face hardened for a moment, and the look of pure terror on her face was enough to make him hold back a guffaw. Her eyes widened, shoulders tensed, knees bent and prepared to lunge out of harms way if the need provided itself. Instead, he leaned down and scooped a hand full of snow in his own palm and launched it in her direction, chuckling when she jumped out of the way and hid behind her tree.

"You have attacked a king. I could have you for treason."

"But you wouldn't" she asked, grabbing another fistful of the cold substance. The ball in her hand was aimed at his chest once more, though she did not throw it just yet.

"What would make you think that, my lady?"

She smirked and meandered slowly behind him, his gaze focused straight ahead despite her close proximity. Once she stood behind him, he angled his head to look back at her, laughing once more at the vengeful glint in her eye. A breath passed and she lifted the snowball again, the other hand working to somehow widen the back of his tunic without him realizing. But he had, and just as she went to toss some of it down the collar of his garment, he whirled around and thrust her forearm toward her own form, chuckling as snow spilled onto her chest and abdomen. A girlish shriek filled the air, followed by the whine of his princess as she looked down and saw the slow stain spreading across the front of her gown.

"You have declared war, my King."

Were they in any other company, they would have been reprimanded for acting like two foolish children. But Æthelwulf had been chosen as chaperone for two simple reasons: one, he would be trusted by all because of the love and respect he had shown towards the young king and princess; and two, a young man himself, he often turned a blind eye at adults playing, for he had many a time been the center of his own spectacles even during the war. So as the two raced after each other and launched snowball after snowball at one another, he turned around and smiled, laughing silently to himself.

-xx-

Meanwhile, as the King and Princess were occupied with declaring war on one another, Branniel, daughter of none, sat in the courtyard beside her Amrothos, wanting no more than for the remainder of her time with him to be spent in bliss. Unescorted and secluded by a low hanging tree, the two were dallying in what would have been perceived as inappropriate. But she held no care, and instead rolled onto her back, nearly crying in glee as her beloved's lips descended upon her own and claimed them with such ferocity she was certain she might split down the middle from it.

His father had denied their prospective marriage, declaring that as much as he loved her as his own, his son needed to secure someone with a higher dowry. A political match - always for advancement and gain. And while Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth was a loving man, his power only ran so far. She understood...or tried to. Within Amrothos' arms, however, she pretended for just a bit longer that they still had an endless forever together. That they might grow old with one another yet and parent many beautiful children with dark hair and emerald eyes.

"I cannot bare to think of what happens after the wedding," Branniel whispered, removing her face from his for a moment, gasping through parted lips.

"Then think nothing of it." He bent his head once more to capture her mouth, smiling as her lips parted beneath his. "We have carried on this charade for some time now, and we can continue until I can bide time. I will simply make all prospective wives despise my presence, and before long my father will have to accept our betrothal."

"What if he never does?"

"We shall run away together. Make a home somewhere far away."

It seemed like a phantom of a hope, and yet Branniel clung to it, drawing Amrothos to her once more in a passionate embrace. Here in the canopy of leaves they might yet pretend they still had time. Here in the canopy of leaves they might yet pretend they still had a future which lasted beyond the walls of her new home.

It was easier to pretend than to accept the reality of it all. And so she sprawled backward against the low lying grass and cupped her palm over the side of her beloved's face, traced each gentle slope. Counted each divot from a scar. Memorized the number of amber colored flecks in his dark eyes. Once she had done all of that she leaned up and claimed her reward in the form of a searing kiss.

-xx-

On the morning of her wedding, the Princess thought about climbing out the window of her chamber and slipping away. She imagined running as far as she could, hoping to make much headway before someone noticed she'd disappeared. If they noticed at all. But that thought dissolved when her father's face appeared in the wisps of her mind, the same face he wore the night she accepted Éomer's proposal. He'd looked at her that night as if he could never be more proud of her, so delighted as he looked upon the young king he befriended over the last year and war and intended to give his daughter away to someone he trusted with his own life as it was.

His smile that night spoke of all the words which needed not to have been said. Despite losing a daughter, he would gain a son and eventually grandchildren. How could she be so selfish as to run away when he cried as he held her later that evening, whispering his affection for her against her brow. The way he clasped hers and her betrothed's hands together and gave them their blessing.

Servants helped her dress, complaining about the disarray of her hair. Something about the weather in Edoras made it stick out in odd places, unused to the constant whoosh of wind blowing through it. It turned her once beautiful locks into a knotted mass of mess. Which led to her being seated in a tub of water, steaming on the surface, and scalding as she stepped inside. They lathered her with different soaps of different scents. By the time she sat back down on her bed, and one of the servants began untangling her hair, she reeked of flora.

She thought of her mother, then, and what she might think of all this were she still alive. Though she had never known her, to ask her what she would do in her situation would have been preferred. She, too, had been arranged to marry her father, and though their marriage was loveless from the start, it had grown into something beautiful that neither of them had expected. Her father loved her dearly - even until her last breath.

Lothíriel had longed for a love like that. Craved for it once. But the thought seemed silly now. Éomer was a dear friend, her betrothed. In a few hours he would be her husband. Her first kiss with a man. And shortly after that, he would be her lover.

 _Mother, how I wish you were here with me now..._

-xx-

Lothíriel found it odd she now stood within the King's chambers. Her shared chambers on the nights she were to spend with him. She stood in no more than her shift, long gone now the servants she had shooed out of the room, wishing to remain alone in her last few moments of being a maiden. Candles flickered all around the room, though they did nothing for the icy chill which wrapped around her aching heart.

This day changed everything, in more ways than she could count on one hand. Just hours prior she stood beside her now husband before his people, declaring emotionless words of love and fealty. She swore herself to a man she knew no more than a few months, allowed their wrists to be bound together, the feeling of her pulse radiating against his. He whispered the same words in his language, words she could not understand, yet did not care to question what they meant. To her, the meaning meant little. She had been bought and bartered for, like a prized horse to be gawked at - a young girl with a crown on her head; a young girl with a crown too heavy to bare.

With his free hand he had touched the nape of her neck and drew her forward for a kiss. The final tie in the alliance between Gondor and Rohan. The final straw aligned with the rest, each one more final than the one which came before. No longer was she the Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth...a thought which never brought her joy in the least even before her coronation, but now she begged to return to. Simpler were the times she remained in her gilded cage along the shores of Balfalas. Days where she could hike up her skirts against her Father's protests and dash through the waves. Days where the sound of her brother's laughter filled the halls of her home and the crevices of her heart. Days where the only pain she knew were the prick of a needle as she sewed away in her bedchamber little gifts for her nieces and nephews.

She breathed a sigh at the memory of his bearded face against hers, so coarse and calculated. His lips were softer than she had imagined or expected, and yet he pressed them against her's with a firmness which made her heart ache. She knew Éomer to be a man of honor, and expected him to treat her with the kindness her Father promised her he would, yet it did little for the pounding of her nervous heartbeat deep within the cage which confined it.

Trembling, she stepped in front of the mirror in his bedchamber, inspecting her form in the orange glow of the fire which burned in the distance. The shadow of her silhouette caught her eye, each curve outlined through her shift. No longer did she hold the curves of a young girl. The woman standing before her matured, developed...held beauty foreign to her knowledge. Fear clawed at her stomach the longer she stared at her form, recognition of the fact she would be expected to carry a child within her womb - recognition of how the child would take root in her.

What if he does not like me? What if he is repulsed by me and I cannot fulfill my job to provide an heir? What will they do if I cannot give him a son?

The girl brushed her hand across her face, frustrated tears hitting the floor below. Her new husband's armor sat on a chair nearer to the fire, a beautiful red cloak nestled beside it. Her fingers brushed over the neck of the garment, so perfectly tailored to the broad width of her husband's form. She had seen him wear it earlier that evening, looking like the proud King he was. She lifted it in front of her, admiring the way the fabric shone in the light, and pulled it over her shoulders. Fur tickled at the back of her neck and ears, though she found it to block out the sheer cold of the winter, and leaned her head against the collar.

Curious, she brushed her nose against the fur and inhaled, taking in the scent of her horse lord. It smelled of burning wood and the outdoors, of grass, dirt, and a hint of something else. Something more delicate, perhaps? Lothíriel swayed in the middle of the room, the cloak still round about her shoulders, to the sound of the music still playing down in the hall. The festivities would be expected to continue until the certainty of consummation presented itself. She laughed at the thought: while the guests of the King partied until the sun shed its morning light, she would be expected to perform a duty which filled her heart and soul with dread.

There was no peace to be found, even with knowing her life had prepared her for such a time as this. Princesses were wed to noble men, of this she had been reminded often throughout her life. Thankfully, her husband was still young and kind. He loved Father and her brothers considered him brother long before they were wed. Other situations might have been different; she could have been married to someone old enough to be her father, or to someone who would treat her poorly, to someone who smelled of dung...the outcomes were endless. Even her maidservants reminded her of how handsome her husband was, and how many women would love to share a bed with the King. Despite all this, she found little comfort in their useless words.

Lothíriel spun about on the tips of her toes, humming a tune her and her husband had danced to at the beginning of their celebrations, the hem of her shift dancing about her calves. It was then the chamber doors opened. Startled, she paused in her movements and eyed the form in the mirror. Éomer stood there in his own nightclothes, a long linen which covered him enough but left very little to the imagination. He still held aloft the wine he had been drinking throughout the party, paired with another goblet she knew he'd brought for her. Realizing she still wore his cloak, she tugged it off her shoulders and draped it back over the chair and bowed before her husband, flinching when she heard him slide the door bolt into place. An unfamiliar intensity filled his eyes as he approached her, her goblet extended before her face.

She took it with an appreciative nod and forced a grim smile upon her lips. "You said you would be some time yet...I did not expect you so soon." Her heart raced in her chest, the sound drowning out the world around her. His lips quirked upward briefly, before he settled himself down on the bed. "I am sorry about your cloak, it was just so very beautiful I wanted to try it on."

"I do not mind, Lothíriel. We are wed now."

The way he said it twisted her gut. Swallowing thickly, she sat down beside him and took a sip of her wine. "I am not sure what I am expected to do. Do you wish for me to lay down while you...get on with it?"

"You make it seem as though it were the worst thing," he said, forcing a laugh, though it never reached his eyes. "I am hopeful we can both find happiness in this marriage."

"Please, can we just..."

"We do not have to go through with this tonight. I don't expect this from you...I have already assured you I don't wish for an unwilling -"

"Please." Though she wanted anything but this, if she delayed she might never accept her marriage duty.

She placed the goblet down on the top of the trunk before the bed, then scooted backward and laid herself against the furs. He cleared his throat and placed his drink beside hers, before laying beside her. At the first brush of his fingers through her hair, she felt her teeth bite down against her bottom lip. He withdrew for a moment at her reaction, then returned, his fingers moving to undo the pins which held her hair in place. Once freed and rolling in tumbles across his palms and her shoulders, he twisted a strand around his finger, watching her. Frightened, she lifted his palm and pressed it against her chest, knowing she needed to get this over with and quick.

"You do not have to fear me, Lothíriel," he whispered, before his lips descended onto the skin of her cheek. His palm curled tighter over her breast, the erratic thump of her heart against the curve of his own flesh.

She thanked Elbereth he did not kiss her mouth again, and instead turned her head so he could continue to kiss down the planes of her cheek and downward against her neck. The desire some of the looser ladies in court spoke of did not come, instead with each press of his lips against her skin she felt herself sink further and further into the bed, her wish to be elsewhere so great she might drown in it. And as his lips ventured further, his hand tugging her shift downward to reveal more of her chest, she choked out a whimper. If he took it as pleasure and not fear, she was uncertain.

She knew his ministrations were merely to get himself ready. Enough of the ladies in court spoke of their unbecoming first nights with their unwanted husbands, and how they, too, suffered through the discomfort of bedding a woman they held barely any care for. However, it did nothing to settle her own nerves.

"I am sorry..."

His words were more a plea than an apology, and she forced her eyes shut as his hands moved to pull the shift up around her hips. He whispered sorry again when his fingers trailed along the inside of her thigh, and again when they ventured to her innermost point. She nodded with every plea, his words a mantra in her ears.

Sorry as he kissed over her breasts, her knowing fully well that this needed to be done. This was her duty, she needed to submit to him.

Sorry as he tugged the remainder of his clothing from his body...as he settled himself down atop her.

Sorry as she felt the first hint of him against her.

Sorry as he moved his hips in one fluid motion and took her maidenhead.

Sorry.

Sorry.

Sorry.

She cried silent tears, her face turned away from his as he moved against her, the fullness of him bringing her more pain than she thought she could bare. No one warned her of the absolute pain of it all, of the way it felt like she was filled to the brim and might run over from it. The burn settled into a deep ache, and despite the vows they declared before a congregation just hours before, something felt wrong. This act went against all her father protected her from her whole life, and now her life as Queen required it.

A low grunt sounded from her husband's throat then, his hand moving to curl around the back of her hips, bringing her even closer against him. A strangled cry slipped through parted lips, frantic hands moving to cradle her face gently. Éomer searched her eyes for a moment, his torturous movements of his hips stilling. Slowly, she raised her palm and pressed it over his chest, over his heart. His fingers moved to cover hers, a kiss pressed against her temple.

"You must know I didn't wish to hurt you..."

No words were shared, instead she did the unimaginable and brought his mouth down to hers, silencing any further conversation. She really wanted no more than to scream at him to get off of her, to remove himself from her presence and never show himself again.

You belong to none, Lothíriel, she whispered in her mind, holding onto his shoulders as he rode out the waves of his pleasure and dropped down against her chest, his breathing ragged pants upon her collar bone. They parted soon after, her form curled on the far end of the bed, her husband on the other. No touching, no hands reached out into darkness to draw one another closer. Two people, so distanced not only physically but emotionally. And as she heard her husband begin to drift off into sleep, she tugged her shift down her legs and winced at the feeling of blood and something else gliding down the inside of her thigh. She felt cheap and disgusted, and she questioned how she found herself in this situation.

There were so many other ladies he might have picked, and yet he called her name that fateful evening.

 _I choose Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to be my wife. Do you take me to be your husband?_

Even though it were an offer, not a demand, the shackle had already been locked around her ankle. How could she deny the man when her father looked at her like he were the most happy of all men in Gondor? How could she deny her brothers, the way their eyes widened in excitement at the prospect of calling Éomer 'brother' in blood, instead of friendship? She knew Gondor needed a solid alliance with Rohan, and the good it would bring to both parties. She closed her eyes again and pictured the events which seemed so long ago now, of all the balls and sweet words. Of the last moments of freedom, before they slipped from her fingers and scattered in the wind.

 _Yes, I will marry you, Éomer King._


End file.
